An opaque tube of geometric patterns

lies still on the side of an open trail


next to upturned leaves, glistening from yesterday’s storm.

The insects will no doubt revel tonight


at a feast that was left by their oppressor,

a papery trace of the night hunter.


You had probably felt the new coat itching against the old net

for two moons and tasted the humidity with your flickering tongue.


Let us help, the swollen clouds had said.

Let us dance, the parched earth beckoned.


When dawn came, you slithered over last season’s oak leaves

and crushed orange pine to a pile of pebbles–


some jagged, some smooth

and wove yourself to the earth’s vibrations


oscillating back and forth

and back and forth, pulsating


to liberate yourself from the old skin–

all in one piece.


You’re beautiful, the red earth said when it was done.

Let us renew you, the clouds cried out,


and there they baptized you with tears of joy,

embedding dew diamonds upon your sesame black coat.




Amy Kang is a senior at Truman State University. She has worked as a writing consultant for three years during her undergraduate career. This is her first publication. Writing is her creative outlet, and she hopes to produce more works of poetry. After graduation, she will be pursuing a doctorate in physical therapy at Washington University in St. Louis.