by Brielle Kroner
She picks sunny daffodils,
and where each stem meets her
clasped fingers, the flowers on the
perimeter of the bouquet perforate and
A girl never minding a violent harvest
if she can keep the severed bodies
in a glass jar each year.
She is the weeping willow, living a
a tree that counts calendar days,
a perennial child.
She laps burning water
from a black, snaking hose
at the side of the house
and the liquid fades first to nothing
(that invisible temperature)
then suddenly to a bright, groundwater cold
that hits her bare toes and shatters.
She walks a gravel drive,
welcoming the sting where shards of stone
pierce the soles of her feet —
(a foot-ache) child
a girl longing to
Brielle Kroner is an M.A. and M.F.A. candidate for English and poetry at Arcadia university. They are a poet and nonfiction writer particularly enjoying the merging of and spaces between the two genres. They live outside Philadelphia with their partner and their cat.