This poem appears in the Winter 2015 issue of Modern Age. To subscribe now, go here.

 

My house—an oak—and near the head
Companioned, with a few,
The wind and we conversed, in gust
And rustle in the blue—

The stem a fragment of the root—
My quarters, on the height—
Identical, the lodgers, yet
A search, and none alike—

The vein a passage—to the source,
And multiplied, until
The paper body is—reflection     
Of the buried well—

The months our measure—then I spoke,
And neighbor Leaf replied—
We talked together, as the sun,
Dragging his bullion, fled,

And winter crossed—by decimals—
The threshold of the room—
First we incarnadine became,
Then divided, dumb—

 

Hannah Walker holds a bachelor’s degree in literature and participated extensively in her college’s literary journal. She is currently writing fiction and poetry and intends to get her MFA in illustration.