Don’t you lay on down because its harder
now, because grain, you did not germinate,
no green fronding things erupting stuffing
from your casing yet–be patient with your
feet, they still beat, bound and wound around you.
Waiting and unfaithing are not the same–
you aren’t a seed that flays before the rain.
You’re an embolism coaled, heat
up your segments, strapping you to crackling
cusps. A dark wind turns and burns your forest
down, the wooden things are screaming now,
fire nibbles at you, begging you to burn
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves water-side living. She currently lives in Edgewater, Maryland with her wife. Her published poems can be found in Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine and Spillwords Press.