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by Kimberly Quiogue Andrews the creeks have picked up speed, merging on to warmer highways a bit of the air above my head has recognized the advent of a new month and pauses every moment has seemed long and brave, an overwintered carrot I’ve come to think of length and bravery as the crumpled event of a kite crashing into a tree you’ve receded, in opposition to the season’s flinging of blue china plates help has not come, the incomprehensible song of the early crocus my arms in their grasping have formed room after room, a clicking series of hinges each unfinished sentence has furnished this new and difficult house the neighborhood of your outline, paling silhouette, has pasted itself to my door  photo by Rachel Engel Kimberly Quiogue Andrews is a poet and literary critic. She is also the author of BETWEEN (forthcoming from Finishing Line Press), winner of the 2017 New Women's Voices Series Chapbook prize. Recent work appears in venues ranging from The Recluse to the Los Angeles Review of Books. She lives in Maryland and teaches at Washington College.
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