by Nora Rawn
Joshua Tree
What happens
when you return
do the trees remember,
the winter sky, unpaved roads,
Orion and his belt circling,
same season, another season of life
past self passing on another unmarked road,
lost in the glow of headlights, no service
fog of the new year dawning
fog of the valley returning
it was so clear that year,
so cold; you slept alongside one another
but alone, jump cut,
six years later, bunk beds,
still the same sky, run in the morning,
sand tracking inside
freedom, imbibed with the cactus flower
at the bar, numbing the tongue,
leaving a blank
Advice on Being a Tree
On the bus she puts her hands out loosely
moving evenly up First Avenue
“Elegantly flowing” she says
to her friend who says
“And at the end drying up”
“It was so fun, it was so scary” says the first
but she’s overcome it, red tresses,
bounding down the step lightly,
flowing down the block into the night
under the hanging pods of the pagoda trees
****
Nora Rawn works in subrights in publishing and lives in Brooklyn. She has had pieces published or forthcoming in Dodo Eraser, Dreck Lit, Be About It Press, Electric Pink, Tap Into Poetry, Burial Magazine, Some Words, and more. She spends too much time on twitter @norabird.