Go ahead, sit in the field and weep, then be done. Stop wearing your grief like a thorny garland
in your hair. Pinecones? Make a crown of something else. Starlings in mid-flight, say, or rippled drip-drop
of honey-comb. Or, for God’s sake, seaweed—even the briny sea-rose would be more palatable than this. I know
there was something unforgettable in their kiss. But honey, all the color has drained from your lips. Remember
mouthfuls of spicy nasturtiums? Or borage nestled like sleeping stars in your palm? Remember playing harmonica
in your marigold-orange dress? Or the serpentine slither of garden snakes thrilling your toes? How when one pissed
you wore that stench like a badge-of-untamable-things? Remember grandmother, standing in a doorway bellowing
her accordion, moonshine in her stone-grey hair? Or how about the wild onions? In particular, the black earth
where they grew? You need the black earth. Throw your spiny crown to the ghost of misbegotten lovers. Bury it—
garland of tiresome brackish moans. Let pinecones be pinecones. I know the apple tree is long gone. I know the wild
onions have all but vanished & the animal graveyard has lost its markers. Go anyway, kneel down. Find the buried
sea-glass & the salamanders, find the earthworms winnowing their love song. Find the impatiens you planted in secret
& the squirrel’s soul you buried in a coke bottle. You: archeologist of small intricate bones—leaf-swung; heart-shorn. You: music
maker of twine & sorrow & backyard stones. Valiant, tender girl—there is another kingdom. Sometimes the best answer is No.
*
Anya Kirshbaum (she/her) is a queer poet and therapist living in Seattle, Washington. Her work has appeared in Whale Road Review, Sweet Lit, Crannóg, Solstice Literary Magazine, and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the New Millennium Writing Awards and the Patricia Dobler Poetry Award, was nominated for a 2024 Forward Prize and was the recipient of the 2023 Banyan Poetry Prize.
