Vestment by Tyler Chadwick

Come slip between atmospheres of memory.
Knead yourself into cumulus—your airline ticket,

your pushbike, your liahona—with fingers like
the fingers of Doré’s sun. Sift marrow

until you feel soil part, feel the fern press its head
through mist then flatten against sudden emptiness.

Until you can roam sky without tripping on God’s
hem, can cloak in light

without singeing every shadow to ash, without
blinding yourself as you trace the cloudfire to dusk.

____________________________________________________________________

Tyler Chadwick lives in Pocatello, Idaho, with his wife, Jessica, and their four daughters. His poems have appeared in Metaphor, Dialogue, Irreantum, Salome, Black Rock & Sage, Wilderness Interface Zone, and The Victorian Violet Press Poetry Journal. In 2009, he received the Ford Swetnam Poetry Prize and in 2010 he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He’s also editor of the forthcoming anthology from Peculiar Pages Press, Fire in the Pasture: 21st Century Mormon Poets. He blogs at chasing the long white cloud.

To read more of Tyler’s poetry on WIZ, go here, here, here, here, and here.

*non-contest submission*

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