Thank you for visiting Issue 12 of Soul Forte: A Journal for Spiritual Writing, featuring writing by Shahrzad Taavoni, Anne Gorsuch, Naomi Raquel Enright, Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu, Mary Alice Dixon, Dan Mellor, Justin Evans, Eleanor Hubbard, Chadwick Rowland, and Amrita Skye Blaine. May you read and resurrect.
The Snowflakes of Summer
Day by day,
hour by hour
your form undergoes metamorphosis
like ecstatic butterflies bursting open.
As one poppy withers,
three more burst forth:
bright salmons,
alluring reds,
whites splashed with pink,
violets wrinkled in crescendoing shades.
Inside them:
yellow and black light bulbs,
sprouting hairs
like hypnotic rays of light.
Golden pollen glistens,
smeared everywhere.
Living gossamer
cosmically unfurling.
So delicate it melts at a touch,
petals cascading down.
Each bloom unique,
like magical fingerprints of snowflakes.
The ecstatic shivers
of being wrapped in warm colors.
A testament to divine existence
and exquisite intelligence.
Tear Catcher’s Alchemy
I want to catch my tears
one by one.
There is one angry drop,
enraged by injustice.
Another in despair,
sad and longing.
Another frozen with fear.
I want to collect a sampling
of these tear personalities.
One by one,
until my tiny,
iridescent glass
tear bottle is full.
On a sunny day,
I will place it on the windowsill.
The prayer lights
will strum the plethora
of its harp, peaceful rays.
Shooting multitudes of colors,
infusing my tears into a mix
of metallic lights.
As the chemistry
of light and time
takes over,
my tears will transform
into a perfume—
rich, flowery, citrusy,
illuminating, uplifting, wise.
I will wear it proudly.
The finger prints
of my sweat emotions
will further alchemize its fragrance.
Then I will bathe myself in the ocean,
purifying and shedding
the last trace.
All remnants of my pain
becoming unperceivable in its vastness.
Isabella’s Dreams
The desert, cracked and parched,
anguishing for rain to kiss it.
A connection,
warm reunion:
two souls touching.
Finally, the empathy of rain
floods a loud thunder of relinquishment.
Her drought-suffocated tears, quenched.
Unspoken longing,
a thousand years of prayer.
Unlike the hardened, parched soil,
unable to absorb rain.
Her land absorbed all of it.
Primed in enriched receptivity.
The flood of her tears
fed poppy seeds.
She is now a lush,
red ocean of poppies in full bloom.
So far and vast,
the eyes cannot grasp its end.
Perennial perpetuity,
eternally reawakening each spring.
The longing’s thirst quenched
by the victory of dreams.
Fire, Water and Light
When his words would touch her,
goosebumps would rise,
small hills erupting,
hidden from his eyes.
She would leave subtle clues,
quietly smirking,
illuminating the slivered crescent moon.
He would light small tea candles.
One by one
splashing dew drops
upon the aura of her skin.
This was a love that could fully fertilize.
They had the rare, essential elements:
fire, water and light.
But he carried a birth mark.
One that reminded her
of a former lover’s rancid wine.
She thought he would not accept her.
Her porcelain body unmarked,
steeped with the flavor
of tea leaf innocence.
Her tribe: the ephemeral wind.
His: lattice ancient roots.
Their hearts were half water-filled caverns.
Their interplaying waves,
quivering touch.
Cloistered,
a meek candle
hiding the breadth
of their capacity to love.
Her tribe called her.
She moved like the breeze,
extinguishing the oxygen
of their first flint fire.
Shahrzad Taavoni is a poet, artist, licensed acupuncturist, and MFA candidate in Creative Writing at the University of Baltimore. She holds a Bachelor's degree in Psychology and dual Master’s degrees in Acupuncture and Herbology. Her work draws on the healing arts to explore themes of mythic consciousness, resilience, and ancestral resonance. Her poetry has appeared in Persian Heritage Magazine, and she has served as a reader for Honeycomb Literary Press. Shahrzad also integrates poetry, voice, and sculpture into her immersive light shows, which have been presented at Maryland Art Place, School 33 Art Center, and Subtle Rebellion Gallery. Follow Shahrzad online via Instagram @shahrzadtaavoni; Facebook at facebook.com/shahrzadtaavoni; and www.AcupunctureInTowson.com.
Conversations with Dead Anne
I don’t know what happens after we die. But as a useful practice I’ve been imagining that some aspect of “me” is able to revisit my life after I die.
So much gratitude, love, and learning.
And two feelings as related to hard times.
Compassion. Deep, deep compassion for the challenges of this human realm. My human heart softens at this felt-sense reminder of the truth of what the Buddhists call dukkha. Suffering.
It’s not all that there is. Nor the heart of what is. But it is certainly part of human realm experience.
Secondly, playful laughter. That is what I cared about?!
My everyday preoccupations and anxieties are right-sized. Made smaller. So much smaller.
Pop.
The field of love grows bigger. Love for myself. Love for others. Love beyond self and other.
Dead Anne has lots to teach living Anne.
May I listen.
What conversation do you want to have?
Anne Gorsuch writes short invitations to internal and relational practice informed by her meditation practice and work as an intuitional coach. She shares occasional brief reflections like this one with subscribers via https://www.annegorsuch.com/.
Fleeting Eternities
“Every moment is its own glimpse of eternity.” — Rev. Dr. Eric Park
In April the sun set on the life of a beloved family friend and at her Memorial Service, her Reverend said the above.
It moved me to my core.
I am one who ponders the mystery, joy and heartbreak of life.
I have always wished to understand others and the world around me more deeply.
That desire has become more pronounced since my son was born in 2010 and my father died in 2011.
To experience the beginning of one life and the end of another in such close proximity transformed how I process my own borrowed time on this planet.
Not only did I witness the beginning and ending of two lives, but both lives are intricately intertwined with my own.
My beloved father gave me life and I brought forth my beloved son’s life.
It is a profound experience — one I have been grappling with ever since my son’s first breath and my father’s last.
At the Memorial Service, when the Reverend said, “Every moment is its own glimpse of eternity,” I felt a measure of calm I have rarely felt when I reflect on motherhood and life without my father’s physical presence.
As I have adjusted to life and the world without my father, so too have I had to adjust to my son’s constant evolution.
When I lost my father, my son was a cherubic infant. In his face I see the passage of time, and the shift of the world as it was when my father was alive and the world as it is now.
The times I have wished to share an aspect of raising my son with my father are infinite.
Yes, my son is my father’s continuation in the world but that does not change the fact that I wish he could be a part of the growth of this individual he had a hand in creating.
An individual who has so much of his grandfather in him — from his kind, striking green eyes, to his curiosity and compassion, to his propensity for dry, chapped lips.
The Reverend’s words, however, made me realize that although every life ends, we carry those whom we have loved and who have loved us.
Every moment, too, is a lifetime in that we never know which moment will be the last.
The moments we experience and the moments we share end up defining the measure of our lives — and become the connection to those whose light we carry.
Given that I became a mother and a fatherless daughter within a year, the concept of time for me has been transformed.
There was life before motherhood, when my father was healthy, alive and an integral part of my every day.
There was life in the year after my son was born, when motherhood redefined the wonders of being alive and simultaneously, my father’s light was diminishing.
And then there has been life since my father’s death, when I have had to make sense of the world without my father in it.
Almost every milestone of my son’s has been colored by the physical absence of my father.
Witnessing the becoming of one’s children is awe-inspiring — and I have often wished I could share these moments with my father.
Next week my 14-year-old son will graduate middle school and as I prepare for his big day, I have found myself feeling very moved.
Even as I write these words, tears have sprung to my eyes.
This moment in my son’s life is yet another milestone.
He will be in high school in the Fall — this being whose heart once beat within me.
And my father has missed it.
That is a sadness I will always carry and something only those who have been fortunate to experience deep, unconditional love will be able to understand.
How I have yearned for my father’s physical presence as I have done the most important work I will ever do — raising my son to be a force of good in the world.
And yet my father has been present — in part because we are his light but also because every moment we shared remains.
When we lose loved ones, we must learn to live with their essence, rather than their presence, but if we look at every moment as a glimpse into eternity, our dead are never truly gone.
When my son receives his diploma, that moment will become its own eternity and I know my father — along with all of our dead — will be beaming on the other side of the veil.
Every moment is fleeting but every moment is also eternal.
Originally published in Medium, May 28, 2025.
Naomi Raquel Enright is a writer, educator and consultant based in Brooklyn, NY. She is also a National SEED (Seeking Educational Equity and Diversity) Facilitator and a New York Appleseed board member. Raised in New York City, she was born in La Paz, Bolivia to an Ecuadorian mother and a Jewish-American father, and is a native speaker of English and Spanish. She holds a BA in Anthropology from Kenyon College, and studied at the Universidad de Sevilla, Spain. She writes about racism and identity, loss, and parenting. Her essays have appeared in several publications including Hold The Line Magazine, Family Story, Role Reboot, Streetlight Magazine, among others, and in the anthologies, The Beiging of America (2017), Sharing Gratitude (2019) and Streetlight Magazine 2021 (2022). She has been interviewed on a number of podcasts, including Global Citizenship & Equity, Inclusion School, War Stories from the Womb, The Mixed Creator, Project 25 and Dear White Women. Her essay The Hidden Curriculum, received an Honorable Mention in Streetlight Magazine’s 2021 Essay/Memoir Contest. Her book, Strength of Soul (2Leaf Press), was published in April 2019.
A Golden Rebirth
To rise from her ashes,
the Phoenix must die first.
From afar, she looks magical and regal,
but from inside, she is just an entity
that must fully depart from existence,
with the light itself turned completely black.
From inside, she doesn’t know
she will be reborn.
From inside, she feels what each being feels
when slain by a word’s blade.
Every part of her body and soul
is not just peacefully passing away,
but fiercely consumed by blue flames.
She dies in pain,
and she screeches in pain as she rises again.
And yet, every time she resurfaces,
she does so entirely and purely.
She rises in kindness, and beauty, and love –
not untouched by the unwarranted act
of being silenced,
but undeterred in what she is at her core.
The light she carries within
cannot be extinguished,
no matter how many times
she is torn apart.
A Golden Dandelion Puff
Dandelion puffs appeared,
as if from nowhere,
blown by an invisible current,
of an unexpected gust of wind,
and carried away to settle, at last,
on a different patch of land.
They looked happy,
like diaphanous, white pixies
flying and chatting
about the next place to visit.
And although I am happy for them,
my heart broke in two,
as if struck by lightning.
It was in May,
when infinite, fine clusters
of feathery bristles
with seeds attached to them
drift freely, magically,
that my mother took her last breath
on the same plane I exist.
Yes, I saw her as a seed,
smiling and dressed in white,
hanging by a barely visible thread
of a silken, umbrella-like shape,
and sailing on an inaudible, angelic song,
in the immensity of the universe.
And I am trying so very hard not to cry,
seeing dandelion puffs fly away,
for each will take root
in some other, unknown space . . .
On a Golden Gust of Wind
The pain of being silenced,
like a wind contained in a box –
the pain of hitting the walls
over and again, and seeing no escape;
the pain of giving up,
of no longer looking for a way out;
and the pain of fighting,
and holding on to hope
in loneliness,
in inescapable darkness . . .
Oh, and the pain of the realization
she always had a voice –
a voice so unique
nobody could hear it from inside
rigid structures man holds as sacred;
a voice kept in chains,
forged from pure light;
a voice meant to free . . .
She was always outside the box,
trying to get in.
She was always wild,
playful, pure wind . . .
Golden Migration
I am going home.
Correction –
I am embarking on my yearly migration
to my other home,
the home I abandoned
when restless and young,
in search for opportunity, I thought,
in search for freedom, I thought,
in search for a yearning inside
that I couldn’t ever quench –
some sort of a static noise,
an encoded message
possibly from the beyond,
I hear constantly
yet I don’t quite understand,
but that nevertheless drives me forward
with urgency,
as if I need to go and seek something
of utmost importance.
I found nothing –
nothing at all, other than hurt:
the hurt of leaving and coming,
the hurt of misunderstandings,
the hurt of surviving, really.
Correction –
I found many beautiful little things
peppered in my way –
a warm breeze,
a flower in bloom,
a whisper of love . . .
And in between migrating lands,
striving to fit two universes
in one soul,
I got lost in entanglements of being
and stumbled on my own shadows.
Correction –
I want to correct my line of thought:
this time, I am truly going home –
the home within,
the home that I am building
from my blood, sweat, and tears,
filled with beauty and love.
This time I am going home.
Cleopatra Sorina Iliescu, from Transylvania, Romania, lives in Atlanta with her two sons. She is the author of four poetry collections and holds a doctorate in education. In her series "In Golden Light," she weaves tender reflections on beauty, love, and loss—each poem unfolding the soul’s quiet mysteries.
How My Father Decides He Wants a Green Burial
blight sickens
the flowering dogwood
on whose silver gray branches
my father watches birds
from his death bed
gazing through the glass
speaking to sparrows
in silent psalms in a tongue
only those with wings
could hear
he calls these creatures angels
with claws
in morning shadows
the ghost
of the dogwood’s last spring
paints memories of heartwood
on the ground
where the woundwort grows
where the earth
is already beginning
to break open
letting my father’s clawed angels
nest in worm-rich dirt
feathered
with birch bark and pinestraw
finding a haven
my father calls his next home
when he dies I hear
sparrows speak
with the voice of my father
in flower
in woundwort and weeds
Glory the Mourning with Morning: the Love Song of Mud
glory the morning
who halos the holly
holy the vining
the twining
the rising to flower
facing the sun
glory the offering
of prayers of perfume
that come with the dying
of one faded flower
her sapphire trumpet
dropping to dirt
glory the ground
catching the fallen
love-struck
by the blue blossom
passing
to root in the rich
underall
glory the earth
in mourning
turning the fallen
to feed
new shoots of holly
in mud wet with worms,
in a bed deep-seeded
with holy and hope
birthing the greens
from the blues
How a 300-Year-Old Live Oak Saved My Life
on the edge
of the Cooper River
by the brackish blue lagoon
I creep into your wound
into the hollow
where once you wore flesh
until god’s good lightening
ripped you to open
to haven a heaven carved
with stars and the scars of time
hiding in the heart of your hollow
I feel the pull of your roots
how your dirt carries my feet
your branches cradle my back
your core seeds me to fruit
whispering the wounds
of your womb I nest
soothed by the bark of your tongue
brushing the moss in my hair
smelling of rain and wild onions
the grain of you in me
then I see the teeth coming
claws nearing as a snort then a hiss
alligator breath razors the air
death at the cup of my cave
sky splinters when thunder claps
as a bough of you crashes
hurled down at the predator’s head
he flees
leaving me held wholly
in the sweet safe of your shade
branching into your arms
my limbs grow leaves and lichen
acorns fall from my lips
Lamentation Witnessed by Saplings
on this desert day
of holy fast
and unearned grief
I make the profound bow
head to knee
in memory of a boy
I never met
except
in the Cooper River roots
of this monastery
with its live oaks
and thorns of roses
except
in the faith
of hanging moss
branch-held
between the callings
of earth and sky
where the boy knelt
green-veiled
bone-cancered
bearing thorns and roses
in his hands
I witness him
from the distance
of the living
see him planting saplings
he called his children—
the live love oaks
of the Cooper River
rubbed raw by deer
in dawn-dark communion
with the bark of saints
Mary Alice Dixon, twice-nominated for the Pushcart, is a poet with synesthesia who grows sunflowers in cow manure. She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, where she reads poetry to the dying and leads grief writing workshops for hospice that include nature rituals, found poems, and gingerbread brownies. Find her at www.maryalicedixon.com.
Roots
Of all of the concepts of progress,
‘going back to your roots’
is most confusing.
Where did you go, so digressed?
Not realising those new green shoots
are growth from your own roots’ choosing.
How many rings in the tree
show years of poor growth?
In those years was so little seen,
that the leaves and roots forgot
that they are one tree, both?
Dan Mellor has travelled the world through war and through peace. He has found himself, lost himself, and found himself once more. Through pain and suffering, he has been blessed with awareness of himself
and the world around him, and now he would like to share.
Asclepias
coffin shaped
in-utero resurrection
Lazarus Jesus Krishna
Osiris of the irrigation ditch
seeds spill out as tiny specks of light flotsam
tangled in the remnants of constellations
of the northern hemisphere
the proto-gods never came into existence
speaking every green thing into being
even this small flake of a seed tethered
with white filament made to expatriate
themselves from home territory
trusting the feminine divine guidance
placement among fertile soil
Justin Evans was born and raised in Utah. He served in the army and then graduated from Southern Utah University and later the University of Nevada, Reno. He lives in rural Nevada with his wife and sons, where he teaches at the local high school. Justin’s seventh full-length book of poetry, Cenotaph, was released in March of 2024 from Kelsay Books. His poems have recently appeared in weber: The Contemporary West, The Meadow, Wild Roof, and Collateral. Justin has received two Artist Fellowship Grants from the State of Nevada.
Van Gogh’s the Pieta: A Lenten Meditation
Help me,
My beautiful boy is dead.
So smart, so willing to help.
Astonished the priests,
loved the common folk.
Healed the broken,
broke the imposters.
Everyone he knew took a piece of him
the crowds wanted food, health,
his companions to sit beside him.
I only wanted to hold him,
only now will he let me.
Many thought he would save them
from hunger, mental illness, the Romans.
They must save themselves
as his ministry came to this.
All my tears wept.
All my sorrow lived.
I didn’t want a savior only a son.
A Country Holy Week: A Narrative Poem
It begins on Sunday, a guy rides a donkey into town,
Pretty weird in the west where everyone rides horses,
But this guy seems different.
His cowboy hat pulled low, his denim jeans dusty,
Having just built bookshelves for friends.
Why did he decide to ride into the seat of power today?
This guy doesn’t say, must be the strong silent type.
His friends thought it was to enjoy his successes
Hear the love of friends and followers.
But no country song has a guy riding a donkey
And this guy doesn’t say.
Some typical country fans, some more ironic urban types,
All cheer him along, and wave hankerchiefs.
The Chorus of the Crowd:
“I love you,”
“I love you,”
“I love you.”
“I’m your biggest fan.”
The guy mouths, I love you too, even though he doesn’t
Know anyone he sees. He smiles and waves, like a queen.
Is it a joke? A satire? A parody of kingdom?
Crowd having fun, not thinking of the whys.
He jumps off after a few blocks.
The crowd mobs him,
Laughing, and singing, and celebrating. While the cops stand by.
Everyone goes to the local pub for a beer,
Leaving one lonely woman to clean up the mess,
The donkey’s poop, the Starbuck cups, the deflated balloons.
She is not celebrating.
On Monday, he decides on a different performance.
Black T-shirt, black jeans with holes at the knees.
His long hair braided, held in place with a red bandana,
His guitar slung over one shoulder.
He looks like a young Willie Nelson.
Then he sees the ones selling Merc.
The Chorus of the Sellers:
“Bibles for sale.”
“He’s the one! T-shirts”
“The guy wore this headband yesterday,
Still wet from his sweat.”
“Get ‘em while they last.”
The guy is furious.
“Who are these traffickers?”
The sellers think he just wants the money himself,
But this guy seems furious about something else,
tips over tables, stomps on the debris.
Somehow, he’s not quite loved as much as yesterday.
Grumbling, the crowd melts away.
He returns to his friends, who hold him and let him weep.
One lonely woman cleans up the mess.
It’s Tuesday. The guy is determined to go back.
His friends urge him to stay home.
Or if you must go, here’s some ideas.
“See a play, go to a concert, attend a rally.”
“Why do you want to go back, after yesterday?”
But the guy doesn’t say.
He only shrugs and heads back to the city.
They would rather not go, but he’s a friend.
No one is waving bandanas today.
There’s anger, anguish, heartache.
The guy absorbs the pain,
As he absorbed the admiration.
He sees the ones we do not see,
The poor, the lame, the sick.
He hears the ones we do not hear,
The despondent, the desolate, the sorrowful.
Was his work in vain?
Was his mission unfulfilled?
And once again he weeps!
The lonely woman holds him in her arms.
No one has seen him all day. It’s Wednesday.
It’s Thursday. The guy decides to have a party.
His friends think, “Maybe he’s finally out of his funk.”
The guy says, “Some friends will host us on their farm.
Go make arrangements.”
The Chorus of Friends:
“Why me? I want to sit here and listen.”
“Why me? I need some rest.”
“I have to do all the work around here.”
“I’ll go,” says one.
The others wondered, “Is this guy for real?
Or will he sell us all down the river?”
However, preparations are made, friends gather.
Nobody knows this will be the last time they are all together.
They laugh, eat, talk: sex, politics and patriotism.
Then the guy takes off his leather vest,
Kneels in front of each, using water from a cattle trough
Washes everyone’s feet.
His friends are uncomfortable, wondering what it could all mean.
Then the guy stands up, picks up his beer and a pretzel
Says, “Let us pray.”
“Why not,” they all thought.
Then he offers them each a sip of beer and a bite of pretzel.
Saying, “Think of this as my body, think of this as my blood.”
Gross, they all think, but he was a friend,
A little wacky maybe, but a friend.
“You are all gonna wish you didn’t know me,” he says.
“Don’t be silly,” they all say, “We love you and will stick with you.
This story will end well, like all good stories should.”
But the guy looks skeptical.
“I need to pray some more,” he says.
“Tomorrow,” they say, “It’s late.”
“No, tonight.” “OK, maybe he has gone off the deep end.
We need to chaperone.”
So, they walk into the desert, sagebrush and dust.
The guy kneels, the rest curl up and fall asleep.
“Why do you want my death?” the guy prays.
“I believed I was sent for a purpose, but this is a terrible ending,
Please no!” But he heard something nobody else did,
And acquiesced.
While the rest slept,
Somebody, nobody knew who, tips the police, “The guy is alone, “
They see a troublemaker, not a savior
And arrest him.
His friends melt away and deny they knew him.
The police take him to the city, beat him all night long, and it is Friday.
The Chorus of the Mob:
“He’s a menace, beat him,” yell the religious.
“He’s doesn’t understand politics, beat him,” yell the politicians.
“He just stirs up trouble, beat him,” yell law-and-order people.
“He’s anti-wealth, beat him,” yell the rich.
“He cozies up to the rich, beat him,” yell the poor.
“Where is your donkey now? Where are the crowds now?”
“Take him away.” They all yell.
The police wrap his head in barbed wire
Walk him to a distant field.
They tie him to a fence and leave him.
The sun beats down, the dust swirls around,
The guy needs a drink of water.
The lonely woman cleans up the blood, wipes his face
And gives him a small bottle of water to drink.
He dies.
It was Saturday. His friends hide.
Maybe they will be accused next.
The crowds want more blood,
His friends don’t want it to be theirs.
The guy’s body is moved out of sight.
The lonely woman arises early on Sunday.
She wants to prepare his body for burial,
if she can only find it.
A stranger points the way to where he was laid.
And there she sees his broken body healed.
And his heavenly body shining.
She laughs with joy, sings:
“Blackbirds singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
Pietà (after Delacroix). Vincent van Gogh. Oil on canvas, 73 x 60.5 cm. Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.
Eleanor A. Hubbard, a retired professor of Sociology at Colorado University, Boulder, enjoys her grandchildren, volunteering, and writing. Her poetry has been featured in Soul-Lit and Pensive, and she has written one memoir and two non-fiction books. Her passion in all her work is helping others to understand gender and spirituality.
Et in Arcadia Ego
Silken touch that tantalized, then fades.
Lilac wine flows effervescent in stream;
In Arcadia there lays what yet remains.
Desolate desire fanned into flames,
Downy embrace, promise of sweetest dream,
Silken touch that tantalized, then fades.
My proud chest, pierced, bears passion’s stain,
Burning desire, once snuffed, softly steams;
In Arcadia there lays what yet remains.
Hollow hunt for thread tattered and frayed.
A siren’s call, scorned by silent scream,
Silken touch that tantalized, then fades.
Dewy hills unearthed by lilting haze,
Lambs silently graze in the milky gleam;
In Arcadia there lays what yet remains.
She silently weeps with quivering gaze.
An empty tomb reveals a stitched seam.
Silken touch that tantalized, then fades.
In Arcadia there lays what yet remains.
Chadwick Rowland is a Catholic writer and attorney based in Washington, D.C. A recent convert, he writes at the intersection of longing, memory, and grace. His poetry is shaped by pilgrimage, silence, and surrender. *Et in Arcadia Ego* is his first published poem.
carapace
seventy-five years
painstaking work
chipping
heart shards first,
delicate tappings
release
the tender
inside
one hard thwack
and card-house
beliefs collapse
falling away
most painful
realigning a love
far too limited—
not personal at all
something dies
in demolishing
but as promised,
reborn in the making
be freedom
transparent chrysalis
reveals wing colors inside
do you hear
your casing split, feel
the seep of fresh air?
pump your wings
break out hang
in sunshine to dry
you were born
for this
now
fly
Amrita Skye Blaine develops themes of aging, disability, and awakening. She received a PocketMFA in poetry in 2024. She has published a memoir, a three-novel trilogy, and has been published in nineteen anthologies including twelve poetry anthologies. Two poetry collections, every riven thing and strange grace, were published this spring.
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