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WE WILL RETURN TOGETHER
by Sasha Geffen When we are gone our shadows will walk these trails. We squeeze air out of the soil with sneakers and hear it whisper small wishes. Our backs snap twigs against the earth. We take the purple pre-dawn in and out of our lungs while cicadas coat the trees, their bodies a quivering bark. The soil soaks us in cool and in dark. There are coils of notes around the branches--there! Birds swoop into the stars and sew shut the night. The sun splits the forest, finds its end in our arms. The air spreads dew on our lips that tastes as though it were poured from ancient clay. Our mouths become the amplifiers of every inaudible sound. When our throats rot our songs will be carried away on the backs of ants. |
Aunty by Brenton Rossow |
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by Simon Perchik It’s never dry -another gust though this elevator is carried the way you count backward for hours and the door flies open lets in a sea half hillside half rising through the floor -you walk in to sleep, begin with the sound sand makes when scattered for footprints still following the silence between 10, then 0, pressed against your face -tides are used to this, start out to forgive, then lay down as emptiness and a home. |
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ODE TO THE SKY
by J. Zimmerman My parents brought me a patch of the sky where one star, a single dolphin of sapphire and silver, swam in a river dark with wind and time When I fall asleep or climb the stairway of my life I arrive where the sky eats strawberries and the sea. My friends and I arrange our patches together, a huge cloak of fireflies and whirlwinds, a cape that flies singing around us full of eagles and the gifts of our parents. |
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