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Poetry, Kiersten Czuwala

Tears, to rivers

Water, to wine

Me, like an iris cut of Kali’s flesh

and a pupil dilating

into a deathless half-light,

sky through sky,

to a body that withers and wanes

like that night half spent.

A requiem of mourning doves echoes.

It ricochets between horizons

and fills the space

with a thin, thin


to be light,

it means that the density

of the spirit

submits to the palm’s.

I spread my arms out

like wings

and imagine them gossamer,

something intangible enough

to be held

and stay that way.

All holy things

must crescendo and swell-

what happens then?

All swollen things

must deflate

or burst-

what are we then?

A knot? of nerve

and muscle?

The wind, then

making a soft thing



Kiersten Czuwala (she/her) is a writer and yoga teacher based in upstate New York. Her writing is strongly informed by her yoga practice in the way that the physical body moves and relates to both the metaphysical space and the natural world. At her core, she's nothing more than a Tumblr girl learning to evolve that energy into a more refined, nuanced style. She can be found on Instagram @kiersten.czuwala


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