Dearest, I was towered;
I was taut like flame
in too tight space.
Even the mortar wanted
to beg for my body,
the way its blue edge shook
under a stranger’s hands.
My father, he shut me away:
I pretended not to know why,
but my back knew better.
I was a wide palm,
sticky with resin—
God had swollen me
with his necessary rain.
Photo By: Ceyhun (Jay) Isik
