Tatiana Clark
Forestry
I went to a funeral once, my first. Foxleaves pillaged me
all the way home, & the pavement turned
blacker than October. I spent the afternoon fingerpicking dusk
from voile; grace from rust. Death unvirgined me
with a mouthful of horrors, several lovely
birds I have embraced into each spare cavity
of my chest. The forest is forked & silver-
tipped. I spin love as though it is more than half
a myth, but the science of God whispers
in my ear moonless truths, a million different
songs coded for departure. The branches are wired
like fire, & even countries made of stone
have fallen with less. What comes after all this lies
like a wounded serpent: the forest is forked &
silver-tipped, so let me rest in the summer of our wilderness before
the trees curl undone. Hold me under
until all our wounds must settle into requiem & carbon.
Tatiana Clark is a poet and editor currently residing in Florida. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of South Florida, where she served as the Editor-in-Chief for Thread Magazine. Her poetry has been placed in The Shore, Hecate Magazine, Ample Remains, and elsewhere. She enjoys iced lattes, art museums, and sunsets. You can find her online at tatianaclark.weebly.com.
Return to September 2022 Edition
I went to a funeral once, my first. Foxleaves pillaged me
all the way home, & the pavement turned
blacker than October. I spent the afternoon fingerpicking dusk
from voile; grace from rust. Death unvirgined me
with a mouthful of horrors, several lovely
birds I have embraced into each spare cavity
of my chest. The forest is forked & silver-
tipped. I spin love as though it is more than half
a myth, but the science of God whispers
in my ear moonless truths, a million different
songs coded for departure. The branches are wired
like fire, & even countries made of stone
have fallen with less. What comes after all this lies
like a wounded serpent: the forest is forked &
silver-tipped, so let me rest in the summer of our wilderness before
the trees curl undone. Hold me under
until all our wounds must settle into requiem & carbon.
Tatiana Clark is a poet and editor currently residing in Florida. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of South Florida, where she served as the Editor-in-Chief for Thread Magazine. Her poetry has been placed in The Shore, Hecate Magazine, Ample Remains, and elsewhere. She enjoys iced lattes, art museums, and sunsets. You can find her online at tatianaclark.weebly.com.
Return to September 2022 Edition