Paperbirch Lullaby

by Nora Hikari

Dallas Reedy

Summer of my youthfire, tender liking of my token sun, there is always a close.

A canticle of the turning susurrates through the cattails, up the river. Eagles leave and the birch stand empty, waiting without knowing. It comes, she whispers. It comes bellowing, it comes wailing, I cannot bear it she says I cannot hold it she says.

The morning is crisp with settling. Into my bones, the snap of autumn waits. Twigs among twigs, antlers left unbloodied and shorn. Moonrise echoes and echoes and echoes.

I see my breath for the last time. The trout sleep below the ice, unbothered. The gentle tumor of powder and quiet smothers and unlungs. Out once more, out once more. The air is bitter, too scorned for her to listen to my indulgence. I look for polaris and even she refuses me, so I will wait for the snowmelt.

The end of silence is not a tearing veil. The curtains lay undisturbed. Instead the lark titters once of the salmon, who have returned bearing tales. The crayfish yawn before tip-toeing to their chores, and the ice gives way with the soil, offers me a place to unburden. My heart pumps algae and moss, my feet tangle mycorrizha lovers, who beckon them to bed. Sunlight, when did you remind me of your name?

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Nora Hikari is a poet, artist, and Asian-American trans woman based in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in West Trestle Review, ANMLY, Ogma Magazine, and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook, DEAD NAMES, is forthcoming at Another New Calligraphy, and her second chapbook, Girl 2.0, is a finalist in the 2021 Animal Heart Press Chapbook Competition. She can be found at @norabot2.0 on Instagram and at her website norahikari.com