Laurel Snyder
		Well: the Girl Who Falls 1 The girl who falls can’t swim, displaces the water. What we call weather is sometimes like this, around us, and with us inside everything. Winter. 2 The girl falls, And a cold place in the ground displaces fear, but the girl won’t have it. She says to her fear, “Hurry back with a rope or some dinner. Hurry back with your very strong arms.” She waits. Some birds come to see her and some birds just come to see. She’s lucky. Now it’s spring, so there are fireflies and the hole doesn’t seem so deep. Her voice, loud in the hollow, shakes the ground, shakes a little. How loud it sounds inside the earth. Then Up— Shaken Morning The girl took the steps at breakneck speed, “What?” and the world went with her, steps slanted, feet fell, braced for bottom. Then up, shaken beside an azalea. Some light took shape, leaked onto earth, onto sight, leaked onto trees. The house stood, ate the air behind the steps, stretched, took all the wood and a window. “A girl could live in a place like this.” There was earth pushed right up to the first step, wrinkled with blades of soft grass and a few new bits of clover. The girl (as if to cry) leveled head to hands, but then changed her posture. She felt the moving of what should, and smiled. “I never was here before this, but now—” One girl. Sturdy house in a nameable season. Steps with banister, sorely in need of fixing.