Caitlin Linscheid

Tipped at the neck you are radiant

with the light that pours
from the center of a wounded animal.
You are a lung of gathered sound.
A wordless voice, the buzzing
of so many bees. A voiceless song
the swell of water and water and water.

You flood yourself to escape shadowy fields
of skyscrapers panting with the stately manner
of the man in a suit. The invisible manner
of the man asleep in a doorway.

Author Portrait

Caitlin Linscheid received her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from Chico State in May 2012. She currently writes, works for University Housing and Food Service, and is studying to become a yoga instructor.