here and there

i never used to parse through words
this way, turning them in my hands
like pearls. palming the muscled backs of trees,
listening for breath, for something slightly parted.
how still, life remains in boxes, on cold sidewalks,
on sagging curbs, in brittled fingers. yours, mine, what
does it matter, now that meaning perches in plain
sight: on fruit bowls, nickels, the silvered backs of
taxis. explanation comes in single
beads nudged down a string.

Maya Renaud-Levine is a senior at Beacon High School, born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. She has a passion for podcasts, politics, singing, and playing the piano, and will never turn down a good crime novel. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in The WEIGHT Journal, Idle Ink, Eunoia Review, Blue Marble Review, Girls Right the World, Recenter Press, and Truant Lit, and she is a national winner of the American High School Poets’ JUST POETRY!!! the National Poetry Quarterly.

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