This issue’s poem

The girl is not dead
but asleep.

See her blanket breathe?
See the new sweat
shiver on her brow?

Watch. Her lips have parted
to take in the blue air
of mourners’ flutes.

Her eyes are flickering.
She is reaching
for his hand.

Because of her,
your hope will be stirred.

You will look for snowdrops
in the frost.

You will watch the roadside
body of a deer
and wait for an ear to flutter.

You will close the casket
and linger in the parlor,
listening for a knock.

Tania Runyan lives in Lindenhurst, Ill.