Nothing, now –
leave the strands of a bob to the sky, black
marring cloud; the fields turned for
early frost. Another wheat-stalk is
raised to blue (gradient, just there) –
and how soon the people fall
softly against each other’s shoulders,
memory set like painted eggs on
the trembling earth. Today, the fruit
is sour, still, plums gestating; thank god
for slow rawness, stunned in
bloom, until the brink of winter. I
found nothing like a shadow, dull monsoon scars
or scabs eaten away in the shifting stone
– even the vowels were scraped back, washed:
hammered fact tilled for the people – turn
it gently by your wrist. I came one morning,
us, polar faces (before advent ends, you
must remember to touch the hoarfrost, horn
to horn, and let it melt against the palm
until both spell and tongue are bitter in
seasonal ways – eyes long from a
field locked bare). Given these months,
there’ll be time; in this moment
I can only remember the spoke of
an hour tuned into your throat, clever
in the sleepless lines, unseeable thread
bitten to stitch the trees; here, the fog is
a gift, juiced haze, blasted white like
our bones, burning in the midday sun.

Annie Fan is a high school student residing in Warwickshire, England. Recently, she was a commended poet for the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2015. Her work is published in The Cadaverine and The Blueshift Journal.

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One Response to Burial

  1. ruchita. says:


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