BROWSE Columns
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Photograph by Michael Howarth (2022)
Do birds in the new world cityscape
know time, and existence,
when grasping bits of shredded cardboard,
dollar bills that fell out of pockets,
straw grass from cracks of cement,
or mulching, spindly
trees excavated from nature, made
neat, their roots wrapped in burlap
bandages, torn away from motherlands,
where distant armies stand
over rocks and dead bodies?
It is time to stop the spooling twines
intercepted in passages of
re-remembering, tangling in turnstiles
of your mind, in combat
for peace in the forgetting, splashing
like a last drink of water cupped in your hands,
scissors open to clip, slashing
away the hideous, wanting to change
the fates and the promises
that have come undone as hot tears spilt
over scenes that might have happened at nighttime
when it was just the two of you, parents in the
magnified light I want to let go, but can’t,
holding you tight, here in the dark.
Georgia San Li is at work on a novel, poetry and other writings. Her poetry and writing appear or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, Confluence (UK), Eclectica, Litro Magazine (UK), and other literary journals. Her poetry was selected as a finalist for the 2022 Oxford Poetry Prize. Her debut poetry collection "Wandering," has been selected as a finalist by Minerva Rising. She has worked in cities including London, Tunis, Mexico City, Sao Paulo, Paris, Wilhelmshaven and Tokyo. She currently lives in New England.
