American Sycamore

by Juana Wong

Birds arrive, already folded. Spring
is hung on the tallest tree.

The ant is set to labor.
A wake of mouths: loud,
lacking. They crawl upon each
other for sustenance. Convinced
their path to survival is in order.

Morbid reflections saw heaven
in the waterhole. The grove bears
sour seeds and legacies. The soil,
a stranger to its native-born,
voids the dream of becoming.

Limbs and leaves hinge
on the fraying rope. Eyes
peel raw to thaw the coming age.
Diamond days, red rain–
fall on their shoulders.

The wine is freshly cut.
Painted by dread, wrung in apathy,
grown of suffering. Fire
is the only thing we’re given.
It has to mean something.

The debt of this light
is burning.

“St. Nicholas Hill” by Christopher Brown

Juana Wong is a recent graduate from The City College of New York, with a B.S. in Computer Science. She enjoys reading stories, visiting museums, and eating fruits. Not otherwise notable, except, perhaps, if something she wrote had momentarily caught your eye. She is thankful for your time and consideration.