i. self-destruction
They’re standing on the banks of a river — in a gully – cutting through a wall of emerald foliage
kin: The trees know all of our secrets. After all,
we hide them in the curves of her voluptuous leaves and pray the silver lining doesn’t unravel
—phloem intact, xylem singing.
We are stillborn: the forest, our weeping mother.

ii. the dust
Swinging freshly sharpened machetes, we soak the world in fine dust and bile-like
fumes. This dust! How are we to breathe? — my society cries.
Before my throat hollows out, the trees bathe in extra carbon
dioxide, marmalade on verdure bodies: chlorophyll in action.
Close your eyes, and prolene weaves through your lids,
tight. It vaguely smells of soot… I say, Where’s the
fire? The dust settles into our nests and strengthens in
the gut.

iii. the savior
We continue to write our eulogy and the trees give us an all-knowing
look; the venerated evergreen evaporates our breed of self-
destruction.
We are suffocating yet still breathing.

Taeyeon Han is a student in California. His writing appears or is forthcoming in The National Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, and American Library of Poetry. Besides creative writing, Taeyeon loves to read historical fiction, sing at karaoke, and find new restaurants.