Emily Jahn
Half buried under foot
that misty evening,
incandescent
in flickering
white eyes –
the night’s
slow blink. They
are the color
of my father’s
hair, their bark
feels like the skin
under his eyes, all
the delicate
beauty in the cross
hatch beneath
the clarity I run
my thumbs over.
I wish they
could pull me up
with their dark
grooves to where
the moon sits
iris-like, their leaves
would be like
soft hands in a silver
sun where everyone
only holds
their breath, up to
their knees in
empty rooms.
Emily Jahn is a biology and poetry double major who enjoys canoeing and being outside.
