The prophet filtered our words through
a sieve and I could be sure
none reached you. With
energy budgeted tight, love
didn’t make the cut
at least
not for a botanist.
I craved you each
time a greenhouse leaf sprouted.
Daily. Tracked the
weeks
until I’d pass
your night sky’s portion.
I promised
my care’s
continuance. Figured
to book the first
return ship.
But no one spoke
the soil like I did.
My dear, our love did not wither.
I planted it
alongside
seeds of the first
fruit.
Its burial would feed the ship’s young
hands that reached
toward its tree
that held their harvest.
Shanley Poole is an MFA candidate at UNC-Greensboro. Their work is forthcoming or has been published in Analog, F(r)iction, The Common, 14 Poems, and Quarter(ly) Journal. She was a 2017 fellow at the Beargrass Writing Retreat, a 2024 writer-in-residence at Azule Residency, and former Storyteller at Ox-Bow School of Art & Artists’ Residency.