& the everblossom withers
Natalie Wang
a father whose care
always depended on
how well you swung
a blade. a long-dead
mother. this country –
with all her craggy rocks
and poisoned waters –
she will never love you.
a father whose care
always depended on
how well you swung
a blade. a long-dead
mother. this country –
with all her craggy rocks
and poisoned waters –
she will never love you.
Somewhere worth bringing you home to
is the most I can ask. I thought we’d never
have a house with bread or wine again, gold
grain littered against the skyline, but we’ve come
so far for it. We’ve cut across this place in pickaxe
scars and stakewalls, stumps left like stray hairs
Every tiny paperclip cuts
a little as I roll. I thumbtack my duty
to daddy, learning to say yes, collect
every common desire. Zigzagging
through rooms, I am his invisible
dreaming, a shining sideways spell
fixing everything. To finish the mess
Summer, Day 15. My crops thrive, every leaf and vine coaxed into dancing with the breeze. The blueberries, tomatoes, and melons are teaching me grace. At dawn, the dew glistens. All day I listen to the carpenter, her hammer chants an old rhythm called “Creation.”
i think about how i told time
before evening cicadas before
when daisy mae cursed me with
bad turnip prices or without
the chimes that isabelle
installed when i sipped tea
and made someone smile
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