Daylight Savings Time by Julia Armstrong

somewhere inside the hour we lose,
we lose her.

my father digs three feet down,
tenderly turns the tiny black comma

so her nose points north.

I can’t watch him teach the loose earth
to return to itself.

the full moon rises,
a tawny little organ—

deer heart, fox stomach—
a dog’s clear, rolling eye.

there is no liquid like grief—
the moon pulls it all,

and my body responds,
begins to bleed.

when I take myself to bed, I hold nothing
very close.

barely conscious, the cold wet
of her nose is a phantom against my hip—

even in sleep,
I nod to show I understand.

Julia Armstrong graduated from Washington College in 2015 with a BA in English and creative writing. From then until 2020, she worked for her alma mater as the administrative assistant for the Rose O’Neill Literary House. In 2017, she was awarded an Individual Artist Grant in poetry from the Maryland State Arts Council. Her work has appeared in RHINO, Gulf Stream, Nashville Review, Tampa Review, and the Broadkill Review. Julia received her MFA in poetry from Virginia Tech in 2023.