“How rare to hand-cup the soil.
What skeletons beneath our skin—we who carry
air—how alive we are, how made of earth.”
-Lindsey Wayland, “We Who Carry Air”
poet | calligrapher | researcher
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One day I have milk stains on my only clean dress,
years later—
my skin, like the nodes of the moon
around my bones, muscle, and sinew,
strolls into this form and that form.
— Lindsey Wayland, A Woman Strolls by a Table with a Warm Apricot Atop