For money, Krista Cox is a paralegal. For joy, she's an associate poetry editor at Stirring: A Literary Collection and Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and Program Director of Lit Literary Collective, a nonprofit serving her local literary community. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Journal, Rappahannock Review, The Humanist, and elsewhere.
You go into the wilderness for days
(people have this same idea in all
languages, so you convene on the cliffs
to misunderstand each other) and when you return
carrying new earth in your corners
you expect a parade. You think sand
will fall from you like rain, take root
in frostbitten daffodils
and grow an Indiana desert. You expect
a steady red
on your answering machine. A Facebook
message. Seven texts. Some
evidence that you are. But you're the flower
and the sand and
this April rain
leaning toward renewal
but clinging to some brighter winter. All
that loves you is carried
with you. You want this
to be a comfort.