And my relatives, the skeletons of the North,
tell me it's like
the snow smothering the crops,
a hot sun melting the ice,
the seeds steeped in the soil
emerging once again, green.
They plant my grandmother into the
frigid earth,
and I want to ask just how they plan to
harvest her next season.
tell me it's like
the snow smothering the crops,
a hot sun melting the ice,
the seeds steeped in the soil
emerging once again, green.
They plant my grandmother into the
frigid earth,
and I want to ask just how they plan to
harvest her next season.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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