by Matt Bearden
It should be dehydrated now,
at least enough to not make a mess
on the floor. Still, it hangs
in the corner like a cocoon.
I knew, didn’t I,
of good and evil,
the sky and the land,
the middle road between.
If I jump, I can see the tree,
taste its fruit from the air,
and learn right from wrong
in the time it takes to rise and fall.
A morality gone on the ground,
ultraviolet, felt only
as warmth, the heat,
then burn. I want to go up
on rice paper wings of orange and black,
flutter on thermals hot
and alive and know this is right.
The tree is my tree. The fruit is
father’s fruit from mother’s branch.
We land here. One coming, the other going.
We always know this tree. It is flight
we forget. We leave it hanging
like an apple on a string. The Chrysalis
in the corner, the seeds of wings
left out to dry, because our flight
always ends as a mess on the floor.
Watch your step.
Matt Bearden is pursuing his MFA at Hamline University. The connections that form between the voice of the narrator and the reader are wonderful, and he fosters these connections. He is a Best of the Net nominee with work featured in Nonbinary Review, Oxmag, and The Dead Mule.
Hawaii Pacific Review 