One Poem Only

the listener Laura Theis her magic was so gentle you may not have known itfor a spellthe way she was able to listen so openlythat we were each coaxed into speaking our languagethe fiddle began to talk of the willow tree it had beenhow it had feasted on light and liquidhow it had swayed and creaked in the wind like a door to another realmthe piano confessed how its beauty was forged from the killing of a playful giant who had loved his life of mischief and joywhile the rain outside sang along in the

First Person Account of a Seed by Vinita Agrawal All night, the face of awning greenhovers above me, its branches carved partlywith the grimace of my own imagination.The sacred wounds of treesleaves me trembling in my own hands.This is the first lesson, though it comesfrom no sage, no guide, but myself:that if I must shatter, let it be outward,like a burst of light, leaves, flowers, fruits—not this inward scoping and scraping of darkness.In the afternoon, a Laburnum, goldenand thick as a second sun,