Spiral
In March, our hearts begin to unfurl.
When the first peony is coaxed out of dark soil,
you will find an endless thing inside. It will be
warm, still soft, still aching. On rainy days,
it will watch girls in lakes, making sure
they are still there to whisper loves me,
loves me not, the seams of their hearts hung low.
It is something I have yet to find a name for—
It could be the girl watching the eclipse
and not knowing what to do with the sun in her hands;
Maybe in summer, it’s everybody coming back as a
poem, the curvature of the spine and
hollowed belly redrawn with tenderness, splitting
over the horizon like a promise. Or a secret, like
looking up and crying because you’re so sure
you belong in the sky. Grief, my peony, perhaps
for the rebirth we cannot have, and in time,
grief for the home we do.
Rue Huang is a writer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and Youth Poet Laureate of her city. When she’s not writing journal entries on bus rides, you can find her consuming her body weight in blueberries, playing jazz piano, or running competitively. Her Instagram is @rue.huang.