Emily said she could read the future
by counting leaves on trees. "Magnolia? Oak?
or Banyan?" I asked, glanced past her
to red stemmed clouds that hung over Savannah,
pointed to a willow and said "Tell my future."
She told me of rooftops glazed
with orange wings, churches whose walls
collapsed under thunder, she smelled smoke
lifted from round chimneys that smothered words
hidden in petals.
She said she saw me once, when I was young
draw water from shallow graves, pick
the smallest stones, hide them in pockets.
I cornered the wind with my boots, ducked
from trains that whistled over thin brown rails,
touched my cheek to the ground
hoping to catch a glimpse of the next town.
| Current | Previous | Submit | Editors | Join | Links | Contact | Sundress |