A finch unfinished & the inner arm

Most of the poets I know still do poet things,
though I went to Mexico.
Packed densely with Emily while she iced her head—
she pretends myseric is a word to describe her state.
I think she means a hollow and unassuming fear
or that the synchronicity we hold is just astonishing.
We sing the states backwards to ensure we remember
that in youth, once, abundance was easy.
On a bicycle a scabbed knee a mosquito bite
to the forehead. That motherhood, too, is not only possible
but that swimsuit handled poor in that stuffed case.
I simply can’t trust a peony from a rose.
Just the beach and her lasting crush which requests
what and what for and fleets again.
Home; my dog, Louise, is currently obsessed with her
flamingo and later will likely move on, like she does
every morning from our sleep, to a pig or to a rope.
Most know winter ought to have been more tender
then and there’s only whom, who knows, to forgive.
I measure the dust that collects on the edging
especially after a colossal rain, purpled favorite.
We wait and wait for what was reported
to be apple-sized hail. I have to ask
what sort of apple ?
Then there’s the fact that joy
just repents for me still.

Hope Isabella Ruskaup currently lives in Denver, Colorado and works with medical students at Rocky Vista University. She received her MFA in poetry from the University of Montana. Her work is previously unpublished.