In the future, someone must invent
August for the insects. They will need
To be taught the end of warmth
And then the movement south.
All the rest is lost—jar of white
Nail clippings, brown foot protruding
From a mangled windowsill. We all mistake
The plainest snowscapes for mimics
Of our mothers’ names or a tree branch
Lived beneath a few hours
Out of every year. A few times
Every winter day we stalked down
The mud path under the oak, so the sight
Of peeling skin became the sole
And permanent echo of trees.
We struck down the oak next fall,
But this went unrecorded, as I was
Already tired of everything
I knew. Before we burned the oak,
There had been talk of ending
The process, but at some certain point,
It made more sense to continue.
We discovered the simple worth
In burning to death. By then, it was
Too late. Poets and moths seized
On the metaphor of light.

 

 

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Blu Mehari is a poet from Las Vegas, Nevada. A recent graduate of Bennington College, they will be pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in the fall.

 

 

 

Photo by Erda Estremera on Unsplash