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Leah Naomi Green

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Leah Naomi Green

Leah Naomi Green grew up in Greensboro, North Carolina, and received an MFA from the University of California–Irvine. She is the author of the chapbook The Ones We Have (Flying Trout Press, 2012). She teaches at Washington and Lee University and lives in Rockbridge County, Virginia.

by this poet

The deer is still alive
in the roadside grass.
In an hour, we'll cut her open, 
her left hip broken, the bone 
in her dark body; now the white Camaro 
shocked in the night and the boy

wet-faced in the back seat, 
his parents at a loss 
by the hood, too young 
to have meant any of it: the giving 
or taking.

“God is an infinite sphere, the center of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere.”


The peony, which was not open this morning, has opened,
falling over its edges 

like the circumference of God, still clasped 
at the
the room where I want to rest,
I find my hands and am able 

again to see you—
clear eyed where we left one another—

last year in the passenger’s seat,
having woken after Colorado, which was beautiful

and which I did not wake you for, 
wanting all the aspens, 

all the golden, quaking aspens, and their silence