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Unroot by Emmy Roday


Maya reminds me that the origin of the word wonder

is wound. Somehow, I knew this—pulling weeds

by their necks and naming them little pretty, honey

girl, miss darling. My dear waits at the subway stop

at dusk, missing how the sky bruises pink aboveground.

At least I dream it so, alone in the orchard digging homes

in the dirt. I don’t know where my dear lives anymore.

I don’t know the time he climbs into bed or with who

or if on Wednesdays he still waters our philodendron

over a concrete garden. I remember that some of these

bulbs won’t root, but others will. Spreading their veins,

blooming their lives elsewhere. I won’t see them pierce

the earth as flowers, reaching toward the sky. But I’ll know

that this is it. This is the marvel.

Emmy Roday is a poet and creative writing instructor from New Haven, Connecticut. She received her BA in Arabic, English, and creative writing from Kenyon College and worked as an Editorial Assistant for the Kenyon Review. She currently runs adult poetry workshops for Write Haus and serves as their Poetry Editor. You can find her poems in Symposeum Magazine among others. Emmy loves her bike named Pearl Lady and her Pothos named Polly.

2 commentaires

17 déc. 2023

Wonderful poem!


17 déc. 2023

Wonderful poem!

M. Anne Alexander

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