When they cut you open, they said you bled stars


ago
1 min
860
readings
101
Runner up
Jury

Madeline Brancel grew up in rural Wisconsin and has since lived and worked in Brazil, Portugal, and Mozambique. She is at her most joyful when making unexpected friendships while traveling, dancing to  [+]

Image of Fall 2020
Image of Poetry
The bunny soft glow falls languid,
seeping into the fibers I so tenderly draped
over the prostrate length of you.

You barely stir. Your breath
is a steady tide so I
follow your cadence with my own, our moons
swinging, skin oozing
eucalyptus and myrrh. I see your sap draining from
the pulp of you where they drilled.
The doctors whisper behind sterile curtains
that they’ve never tasted
a syrup like yours.

They unearth your trunk and carry it
to me in a bundle,
cradled in the innocent enclaves of their elbows, sapless,
still breathing. I promise you new soil,
a well-lit room, a pot that’s too small but still
cozy, maybe even pancakes
to share as you
root.

When we get home, my forest drinks your breeze
and our cheeks run rouge
with your hibiscus, my red allium.
You leave me windswept; I leave you as you are now,
sleeping. Your first spring leaf peeks through your
tender bark and
my chest opens,
awestruck,
as it
unfolds.

101

A few words for the author? Comment below. 0 comments

Take a look at our advice on commenting here

To post comments, please

You might also like…