Ronya Othmann

throw the snapdragons behind you.
you may not turn back. leave
everything behind that reminds you of
them. the sweepings by the gate, you
spell them out in winter, like a
sparrow spells out march. already you
no longer know what it was. snow, as
though it had never been here. empty
courtyard entryways, a mistaken
assertion, the black-eyed susan behind
your back. no name for your girl. the
village has no house for you. not even
in the forest can one live. you ask
yourself as you go, whether it’s the
pavement that does not wear your
shoes or your shoes that do not wear
the pavement.