About the Feature
Photo by John Morton
Outside, a tree, dried out & skeletal, moans. Dead
in spring. The roots can’t find water. It’s May,
the city isn’t greening anymore, & trees are sick
of the sun. Say the sky’s the sickblue of hospital
walls. Say her name as she coughs & gags in predawn
heat. She tried so hard to be loved she cradled
my head against her breast & cried until she had no
more fluids & sorry, I’m sorry, don’t leave me. Say
we never liked her scars, the riverbeds of sweat,
her skin, porous & delicate. & the flowers, wilted.
The tulips. The gardenias. The freshbright gleam
of stems & leaves, of used things fisting tight
to pleasure. Say we are postnature. Say we are
nurtureless. Gone in the smog slit through with light.
About the Author
Caitlin Ferguson holds an MFA in creative writing from Rutgers University-Newark. Her work has appeared in Tar River Poetry, Twyckenham Notes, and 2River View, among others. Currently, she lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico, where she works as an adjunct professor.