Elsewhere
by Michelle Askin
What has been left is gone. Inside me now lives an orchard鈥� a blossom orchard surrounded by moths. There used to be you to talk to from time to time. We would take hold of a rained on branch & speak, or you kindly listened to me selfishly cry. My friend, what is the name of your city? I remember it now in orange lights from laundromats & Korean eateries, that neon glow autumn leaf gold so wildly blowing along your district鈥檚 streets. Maybe, I lived there too once. These days I am forgetting so many things. And later, tonight in the faraway forest, fir trees wade in wind & hailstorm. I want to lick the wet moon. I want to never again pretend that I am better than I really am. I want to pretend I live in a rowboat along the flooded river鈥� no paddles, just tender voices from the village鈥檚 red stone taverns & temples calling me home & candle lit signals in the upper rooms. I know none of this will be real. I really don鈥檛 deserve these things to be real anymore. But once you came into my room & you gave me swans & the swans were gorgeous & the swans showed me how to swim鈥� in heavy dark waves tremoring, just how to swim.
Michelle Askin鈥檚 poetry and short fiction have appeared in 34th Parallel Magazine, The Tiny Journal, Pleiades, MayDay Magazine, Santa Clara Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Reston, Virginia.