Day breaks on your knee
like a scab hard-earned
when you fell into the grass
like a lilac that learned how to float.
You kiss the dew out of the air
and wait for nothing more than change.
The bare oak in the backyard
caught its own broken branch
instead of letting it
into burgundy soil,
on the supple earth below.
Speaking the tongue of your mother’s,
you remark that
it is not easy to forget a language
But the one we spoke made lips chapped
and pronunciation insufficient.
And still, you murmur sweet things as if the outside
and its wind of knives and hints of fluorescence
never parted you.
Can you still see the flowers
among these nests of bone?
Where is the quiet girl in the thin, fine shadow,
her eyes as white
as pale-fleshed moons?
The one that orbits the trunk
of our tree as if it was a planet or even
And it is for these reasons,
that your name
clatters out of this life like the judge’s
gavel. An end that is
Ottavia Paluch is currently fourteen years old and lives in Ontario, Canada. She enjoys watching hockey, scrolling through Twitter, and trying to look intellectual by listening to Radiohead, U2 and other lovely alternative rock bands. Her work is forthcoming in Body Without Organs.