Wish

And if it stayed I would pay with my self,
like a ripe pear in March it would seem a miracle, like the return
of a child from woods with captive smoke,
like the lifting of a car off the steam grate
with a great pulley, yellow and vicious. If it stayed
I would believe that the future may not have to come;
that the years need not bring flying cars and faceless oracles,
or newborn chattel in the same burned-black land, digging
for metal worth more than flesh bodies in red earth.
That my breath would not blow the dust from the bookcovers, that it would stop
before it reached them, before it escaped my slow-drying lips.
Yes, if it stayed, the moment, the wetness
of the paint, the two o’clock, wave foam on the sand,
I would give all I have; for it would be no use. And I would be glad, then,
to pick apart the cells of my body, to uproot
my seed from the garden, smoke swelling in the child’s hands.

Emma Ashley is a fourth-year Creative Writing and French major originally from Chicago, IL. When she’s not writing poems, Emma loves to read, travel, watch Harry Potter, make playlists, and spend time outdoors.

You can follow Emma on Instagram here.