(As a child,
my parents alarmed
my windows. Now
I sleep
with them open.)

Each room with
an open window
smells the same,
like hope of morning
pushed through
cheesecloth. The
fraying ends

of the sky stick
through the screen,
reaching like
freckled arms to make
my bed and fold my
dirty laundry.
Orange sunshine
through a colander.

Taking breaths
becomes an augury;
I lay dissecting the sky
from my bedroom floor,
even when the sun starts to
hold its breath, even when the air
gives up its heat.

About the Author
Amy Shreeve is a student and amateur poet studying at the University of Texas at Austin. While her work is mostly relegated to notebooks, Austin Community College published her poems “Suburbia,” “If childhood had a flavor,” “Paper Dreams,” and “Hubris From 35000 Feet” in their 2018 and 2019 Vision + Voice student compilation. Amy is the oldest of five children, and she owns every National Geographic published between 2000 and 2013.