It is the sound your voice is making
after dragging your body through dying wheat fields
with bare hands. Like forced confession.
Like despair. Because when they take her back like
lost land, the light becomes wild geese
caught in the dark fury. You gulp down the water
thunder has poured at your muddied feet. You kneel—
like it is the beginning again. Remembering
how the evening loses her red robes,
how hands are kissed deep blue, and the maiden says
yes to the brazen boy who is now man
not repenting his love. And so heaven tosses her
silver hairpin up into the night. It spreads out like
stardust and ox hide. This is the whole milky way
sitting between you. Every night, you call to your banished love
from the other side of the river. Night after night, you wait.
AUDREY BRYNN is an aspiring poet with a habit of peeling oranges all wrong. She is a proud oatmeal enthusiast captivated by all sorts of mythology and languages. You can often find her hoarding crosswords and memorising typefaces.