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My Body Didn't Want to Let Go

A calm ocean camouflaged
hammerhead hunt, bulk of crushing
iceberg, bleaching coral, dark depths.

Down there we don’t need eyes
or heartbeats. We suspend
until we drown.

Death can be bloodless. Silent.
You might miss it. In the deep,
tectonic plates groan.

If we’re lucky, we notice receding waters,
flopping fish, froth, whispered warnings
from our grandmothers. Then,

the tsunami hits. When waves
100 feet high slam the beach,
they shuck and slice you.

What the Redwood Teaches Us About Fire

We think of fire as harmful, destructive,
something to avoid. But the redwood thrives with a slow

burn to clear away the dead things. They are built
to withstand a smolder. Fire-parched forests consume,

blaze too hot. But only fire can open seedlings
to new light, welcome growth. The lushness of grass.

The salamander and sparrow. A baby tree given
space to thrive. Just as the kiln hardens pottery,

the fire-tested redwood grows taller than all others,
a pillar for millennia, patient and enduring.

Megan Stolz's writing explores loss, relationships, and spirituality. Her poetry has appeared in Two Thirds North, jmww, Rogue Agent Journal, Noble / Gas Qtrly, and others. She studied creative writing at the University of Baltimore and Hollins University. A Californian, she lives in Northern Virginia with her family. Find more writing at meganstolzeditorial.com/creative-writing.
  • Home
  • ISSUES
    • ISSUE ONE
    • ISSUE TWO
    • ISSUE THREE
    • ISSUE FOUR
    • ISSUE FIVE
    • ISSUE SIX
  • CLEAN-UP EVENTS
  • PROJECT GAIA: AN ANTHOLOGY
  • BLOG
  • ABOUT
    • MISSION
    • MASTHEAD
  • SUBMISSIONS