Gethsemane
When I fear what may come, I cry without sound. Mouth an O. O for olives. And the agony of the olive tree like my body twisted and scarred but enduring, soul-inhabited. Like the bugs in that tree. We raced over the hill at sunset with only moments left to see. Reverently the tourists pressed against the fences that surrounded the wood.
Recommended
No Genre | Emily Adams-Aucoin
Nor’easter
Nor’easter
No Genre | Jesse Wallis
Post-Op Appointment With My Father
Post-Op Appointment With My Father
No Genre | Fall 2024 Workshop
Cedar Valley Youth Poet Laureate | Fall 2024 Workshop
Cedar Valley Youth Poet Laureate | Fall 2024 Workshop