Through the window
you’re a deer aligning

with the house’s dense shadow,
a trajectory of my mind

shaping a path to the heavens.
You’re an offering under

the dying grass moon,
every vessel and no body,

a cracked spire
in the wheat-eyed sky.

I look for you in the constellations
of Artemis; I don’t look for you at all.

The mysteries of death
bore me most; I am interested

in the body’s slow refusal to listen,
the final scrim of heat rising,
imminent.

– Angela Sundstrom

Author’s Note: This poem is from my recently completed chapbook, Where the Waters Still. This collection contains work exploring grief, loss, and the body, often through a mythological lens.