The field. Light. Morning.
Then, my father, uncle.
Apples, everywhere.
In boxes, in palms, in teeth.
Apples, everywhere.
The black mare. Wild.
The black mare that dawned
from the mountain. Wild.
The rough sketches
of my earliest memory.
My father places me on the back
of the beast & we take off
fast, faster into memory.
I didn’t—I would never do that,
My father says. That never happened.

Christie Collins is a doctoral student studying Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Louisiana-Lafayette. Additionally, she teaches full-time in the Department of English at LSU. Her poems have recently appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Wicked Alice, So to Speak, Still: The Journal, and Canyon Voices. Her chapbook titled Along the Diminishing Stretch of Memory is available through Dancing Girl Press.

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