Crab Apple.
You stayed limp, the year your trunk split from
bearing too much fruit. I think you were tired &
sore & wanted to make it easier for deer to eat from
you. My mother insisted on saving you, but your
flesh grew around the screws my father used to
mend your spine & they’ve become rusted, bruised
lungs. At night, I hear you whispering to the ground
mend your spine & they’ve become rusted, bruised
lungs. At night, I hear you whispering to the ground
– lovely thing, you must smell of warm petrichor.
Willow tree.
Your branches, eaten away by beavers, littered the
beaches for weeks. It wasn’t ideal, but you were
happy in this place. Little water bugs & tadpoles
lived on your fingers & arms, you gave them names
& miniature pools. In this small world, you didn’t
mind the lake slime on your body or the holes eaten
& miniature pools. In this small world, you didn’t
mind the lake slime on your body or the holes eaten
away from your fingers. In this small world, these
were kisses.
Yellow Perch.
Hooked through the eye, you flared your gills & cut
my hand open. In my mind, you were dangerous,
even though in the sun your jade scales glittered &
relaxed when my father released you back into the
water.
**
Somewhere, deep in the cold winter of Lake Superior, water is
smoothing the large basalt slabs into pebbles &
if you dip your head under the ice, you can hear these dark
hellebore pebbles softly & quietly clicking.
Mary Maroste
Mary Maroste is an MFA candidate at Virginia Commonwealth University and received their BA from Western Michigan University. They are a winner of the 2018 AWP Intro Journals Project, and their work is featured in Mid-American Review, Jabberwock Review, Great Lakes Review, Thin Air Magazine, Winter Tangerine, and The 3288 Review. Their chapbook Blueprint for a Home Without Tampons was published by dancing girl press in 2017. Mary is from Houghton, Michigan, where much of their imagery takes root, but currently resides and studies in Richmond, Virginia.