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.