Savannah Thorne

The heart’s descant, I am, I am,
Drowned out by psyche’s bleat:
Forever want. It keeps us

A-twitch with muscles.
How dare I? I dare
Because currents snatched my feet
From under me yet here I am,

Guts like dark balloons of love
And fevered brain. Here
I am, again, Iamb,

Hopeless pulses of blood,
Ferocious memory.
How will you know me
When I come? I shall be

A mad eye, the need to speak
A furious rat-tat as shots
Loud-fired into lit-up

Sunday boredom. As long as I held back
The flood, I was well. But it became
A golden, burning crescent,
And not mine to hold.


Savannah Thorne graduated from the University of Iowa and her poetry has appeared in nearly two dozen literary journals including Potpourri, The Wisconsin Review, Rhino, Yemassee, and The Atlanta Review. She has won numerous poetry prizes, including Honorable Mention for The Missouri Review’s Editor’s Prize contest. She recently became managing editor for Conclave: A Journal of Character. Her historical novel is represented by Trident Media.


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