And foliage never tells us the right season.
I am chilled in heat, golden leaves reaching
around the understory of the cottonwood.
Bearing down on us, the sky.
Withdrawing from sight, you hear tapping
underfoot. The source will emerge.
You will face who you once were.
Allow the sun to feed your barren stomach
while it wrecks the forest. Everything burns,
eventually, I tell them. Leave us alone
where we can let the fire warm us.
Read more from Issue No. 11 or share on Facebook and Twitter.