As the Sun Rises, The Brother Disappears in the Shape of an Acorn.


He’s sleeping again, and inside
he dreams that he cannot eat,
cannot sleep—

and then he can’t.

Not like this.

Not in this room labeled C3
on the second floor—

on the kidney side

of the hospital.


And then, I’m addressing you—

You are lost again,
your usual stomach pains.

Your body, falling
under your skin


the act of falling

until you grow a new layer,
your layer of Seattle skin

and rain.

You watch a man as he falls asleep
at a poetry reading, the girl

one seat over rotating a ring
back and forth

over the knuckle—

the sleet and snow—

all silver, like a string
of lights on the balcony

in the window

like small swans.


About mckenzielynntozan

McKenzie Lynn Tozan lives and writes in South Bend, Indiana, where she works as the Departmental Secretary of English and World Language Studies at Indiana University South Bend, and remains closely affiliated with 42 Miles Press, New Issues Poetry and Prose, and Wolfson Press. She previously received her MFA in Poetry from Western Michigan University, where she worked as the Layout and Design Editor for New Issues Poetry and Prose and as an Assistant Editor of Poetry for Third Coast. Her poems have appeared in Encore Magazine, Sleet Magazine, Rogue Agent, Thank You for Swallowing, Whale Road Review, The James Franco Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, and Analecta; and her book reviews have appeared on her website and on The Rumpus. She lives with her husband, their daughter, and three cats. For more, visit View all posts by mckenzielynntozan

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