Ron Mohring's Reviews > Pilgrimage

Number 12 in Volume 5 of the Seven Kitchens Press Editor's Series.

The endless river pours past. She brings you twilight/damp with rain, mossy and alive, flowing on—on—now, rise through/your skin, leap into the soft light, the way deer dance across shallows—/legs like lightning, hooves tapping out an untamed language. ["Serenade"]

I know that the charcoal of fires burned on an ancient/hearth lives on inside my teeth. I know how to raise a glass to/hurricanes named after ex-lovers, or the other way around. ["Knowing"]

But just remember this: it was/real. That hatchet of joy sunk into your chest? That opening up of the/sealed tomb? That sliver of connection to your own immaculate/beauty and strength? It was all real, every bit of it. ["Sorrow"]

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