by Cindy Huyser

A trunk sprung ruthless
through the understory
neither sways nor says.

Volunteer seeds thrust up.
Now vines climb twining,
strangle their host. The ghost

of the freeway curves,
river olive pummeled glass,
night heron still at dusk.

Echoes like Doppler fragments.
She’s a meter spinning
in a shiplap shroud,

a bone-blistered splinter,
a seed husk shucked.
She’s counting down hours

and spending them, she’s
the scar of a sky split open by sun:
now an argument, now a resolution.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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