poem that begins with a trick
if you lie just right, queen anne’s lace floats
in the sky like many tiny moons.
fireflies flicker through the weeds —
a series of crawling constellations.
one day, the big dipper will be gone
& we will be left with the memory.
it is by some sleight of hand
that any of us are alive right now.
for so long, i couldn’t imagine
how our bodies held to the earth
thinking perhaps long ago, humans
carved homes into mountains & left us
the remains. among the summer grass
outlines of ancient buildings emerge,
a lookout tower to the past reminding us
we are not who we used to be
& we should be thankful for that.
elegy without boxelders
they didn’t return, yet summer rolled in all the same.
i have spent so much time looking out this window—
patient for the perfect moment: the return of mother-hawk,
factory smoke dissipated. a cicada brood
hum-humming under the earth, do i become extinct
the moment i am out of sight? or am i simply gone
for now? every morning after Vesuvius a blessing
i have only begun to understand.
i dream of greeting all the small things:
overturned pot now a toad’s home, ripples
on pine trees’ bark, & the zucchini plant we grew
by accident. i will whisper i survived to bees
which only know one winter. mom buys perennials
to plant under my bedroom window.
i dream blue. color that
the bottom of the ocean must be
if i were only brave enough
to open an eye.
& unsteady like ancestors
gulping down oxygen
for the first time. they do not know:
what is theirs
what is finite
does there have to be a difference?
overcome with desire
to pack wet sand, i mold girl
the heft of rope and eyes.
if i want to float…
is it a sin to be so hopeful?
on the news, a woman jumps
onto subway tracks
to save someone
she does not know as if
the choice was easy.
Taylor Garrison is a senior at Muhlenberg College in Allentown, PA. She’s pursuing a degree in history. Taylor is a recent survivor of Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Her work has previously appeared in Catfish Creek.