Among deep brambles of passing light,
we talk of burning fields and plastic oceans,
yet each blackberry begs for pause
as they bud before us in the sun.
We yearn for a clearer sky,
and our longing catches
in the hollow of all that’s fleeting.
You say the quill of a porcupine
only releases when touched,
unlike the heart, which tends to soften with rot.
Lilies bruise in water,
and all around us
fallen fruit bursts
bright deaths—
patterns flung to the sky.
The land falls out of sleep,
stitches itself seam to seam.
You and I write our names
into a tangle of grasses.
We’re like those foxes
hiding beneath the brush,
pulling organs from the ruin
of an unknown animal.
Sarah Alcaide-Escue is a writer from Florida. Her poetry chapbook Bruised Gospel was published by The Lune in 2020. She holds an MFA from Naropa University’s Jack Kerouac School and a BA from the University of South Florida. Her poetry, book reviews, and visual art have been published in Reliquiae, apo-press, The Lit Pub, Channel, Always Crashing, Diagram, After the Pause, and elsewhere.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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