You did not fly with me

over the humoring

clouds

that grew into a shelter of pain.

“Better to be together.”

the whipped tree rests along the edge.

A long, old wrinkle filled with

blooded holes, it longs

for the Mississippi River as

there would be green—

at the prime of the year.

Tell me, tree, I whisper.

An outlier of the past

cannot be fitted in any way

in the present, and future,

and now

shrunken, arms bristled with the wind.

Whoosh. Why don’t you let it go?

The waves rock and slosh; the river

too rapid for salmon to come back.

As I prepare to scramble

your seeds – tell me, how to light up a fire

how to keep you aside.

And tell me, where will be the

edge of America.

By Graciela Zhang