What Happens When the Matriarch Dies
By MT VallartaWe braid her hair, every strand a thread
of flesh. We caress her from mouth
to root, feeling every tale—every tree,
every cliff—nestled in her folds.
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Summer Figs
By Ina Cariñowhen I turn seventy & you are gone,
will my muscles still heft with ease
a crate of summer figs---one
bruised fig for every year of my life---
from the tree in your backyard?
All My Names Are Living
By Ezra FoxThey say I killed you,
say they can pry o pen
my / your
dead / name
like a mussel finds nothing
but the ocean's black silt.
from UNDERGROUND
By GoldenAs in homonym,
humming with the cedars,
spitting spring
to claim a stasis, a season.