I try naming you. A thousand tendrils of speech rifle through silence, uncoiling assurances, untangling certainties, until through them light can pass. I kneel, hot palms pressed together. Is that your hand cupped to my ear? Your soft breath? Thunder. I draw back the curtain only to see my own face. The faded glow from a lamp. An hour of rain.
Tricia Cope is finishing a Masters degree in English at Brigham Young University, where she has served as assistant editor-in-cheif of the creative writing journal, Inscape, and is currently teaching first-year writing. Her academic emphasis is in American Literature, but her passions are in creative writing and poetry. She writes themes of wonder, motherhood, spirituality, and stillness.
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