When I die, my fingertips will find black water, my spine’s question mark
will answer itself like a voice in a mine shaft. After all, I’ve loved climbing into
the darkest spaces, sliding down the laundry chute. I’ve hidden in attics, beneath cellar
stairs, laid still as a corpse behind a rotting log during games of ‘Kick the Can.’ And
though it is my habit to abandon my body when I sleep, it has never been something
I’ve sought for warmth. No. I’d recognize its cold, bright breathing anywhere.
Former Poetry Editor of The Greensboro Review, Jessica Plante's poetry and flash fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in the Best Small Fictions 2016 anthology, The Collagist, Crab Orchard Review, the minnesota review, Mid-American Review, Mississippi Review, New Ohio Review, Rattle, SmokeLong Quarterly and others. She was a finalist for the 2016 Mississippi Review Prize in poetry, and has been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She's pursuing a PhD in Poetry at Florida State University.