My favorite type of wind loves to pass
between chimes. She is obsessed with away-ness
& sees stars on the window panes at dawn,
when my (search) history is coming back
with no results & nothing whole pours out of me.
She has taken to writing about the haunted
woman who was tricked by a ghost
into swallowing glass, her inside being broken
by pieces of broken, and the moon cracks
a grin nobody pays attention to. She is
crumbling in the dusk & again I have forgotten
the magic word for an insincere smile,
or what to call a linchpin slipping
from its crater. We chant at the sky
& our bare skin chases
every jade of aurora beating against the wind.
By H.G. Cajandig
H.G. Cajandig is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she reads poetry for Passages North. Her work has appeared in The Ore Ink Review, and is forthcoming at Snapdragon. She is also currently working on a chapbook. Before attending graduate school, she interned for The Missouri Review and Persea Books.