A lake told me she defines sky
as where I go when I leave my body:

dictionary, my astrolabe: compass to pin
this New Year’s second to its focus
before it winks into the future.

Words ask, what are our definitions
while tongues of flame undulate above
their apostolic heads,

“Like each of you,” I explain,
“an egg lights up at fertilization,
conception in a tiny aurora borealis
sac while attending cells curve
round, offer myrrh.”

They mulled that over.

Reading the definition of “cruel,”
something’s s missing, I thought.
Two errata sheets stuck together
concealed: decree which rains
the future.

Bystanders, fish out of water, trans-
ported to New, trail dystopias
in this last moment of fragrance.

A girl sitting on her mother’s shoulders
strains to see, wonders, what is my definition?

“That’s easy,” her mother says, “you
define me.”

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Karen Holman, she/hers, is a peer support specialist, collagist, activist/advocate living in Metro Detroit. Her chapbook appears in New Poets, Short Books, IV. Her work has aired on NPR and received several Pushcart nominations. She’s serves december magazine. Her website is karenholmanworks.com.