Sarah Lilius
Sarah Lilius is the author of the full-length poetry collection, Dirty Words (Indie Blu(e) Publishing 2021) and six chapbooks including GIRL (dancing girl press, 2017) and Traffic Girl (Ghost City Press, 2020). Some of her publication credits include Fourteen Hills, Boulevard, Massachusetts Review and New South. She has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net Prize. She lives in Virginia with her husband and two sons. Her website is sarahlilius.com.
How I Learn to Write about Nature
Yin yang foliage, alive with activityas air fills me into an oxygenated creature.
Here, the order and chaos make sense.Cool mornings are still sticky with humidity.
My hands fall, slightly camouflaged into viewsof nestled trees, ants, ticks in my hair, I am becoming.
I must be a seed to plant, to grow a new human.I need rain to cover me like a promise.
Sunlight in the forest masksmystery men equipped with smog.
The dark air leaves their mouths, ears, noses,they are hungry vessels of shame.
Their beige bucket hats lined with ammoto coordinate weapons I would never touch.
A small Robin flies into my mouth as a sacrifice.I miss his name, how his feathers shine, his call of music.
How birds grow and know their own sound,my respect swirls with fear and destruction.
When we finally destroy what gives air,will we suffocate in a human way?
And when we can’t survive,is that not alright to accept the present?
The scramble to fix the future of whatstops the rotation of the earth,
surrenders with a halt, a collective moanwhen everyone becomes paranormal.
Maybe the psychic tells a storyof lush lands and fresh water,
or death of what’s taken for granted.This feels too much like a love story.
My movement terrifies the locals, I begin to rustand wane under the spell of a broken sky.
I’m still on the surface.Some try to never build again.
The remaining flowers bloom eagerlyfrom my closing mouth.
Here, the order and chaos make sense.Cool mornings are still sticky with humidity.
My hands fall, slightly camouflaged into viewsof nestled trees, ants, ticks in my hair, I am becoming.
I must be a seed to plant, to grow a new human.I need rain to cover me like a promise.
Sunlight in the forest masksmystery men equipped with smog.
The dark air leaves their mouths, ears, noses,they are hungry vessels of shame.
Their beige bucket hats lined with ammoto coordinate weapons I would never touch.
A small Robin flies into my mouth as a sacrifice.I miss his name, how his feathers shine, his call of music.
How birds grow and know their own sound,my respect swirls with fear and destruction.
When we finally destroy what gives air,will we suffocate in a human way?
And when we can’t survive,is that not alright to accept the present?
The scramble to fix the future of whatstops the rotation of the earth,
surrenders with a halt, a collective moanwhen everyone becomes paranormal.
Maybe the psychic tells a storyof lush lands and fresh water,
or death of what’s taken for granted.This feels too much like a love story.
My movement terrifies the locals, I begin to rustand wane under the spell of a broken sky.
I’m still on the surface.Some try to never build again.
The remaining flowers bloom eagerlyfrom my closing mouth.
