Christened by the black pulp of a young vine berry,
I hold my home in the creek bed’s westward bend
Where the Polaroid flash of fireflies has bleached
the air. Can you picture frozen dandelions forever
Smirking? Staring at a single birch tree’s many eyes
In a belt of birch trees, I witness a jury convene and
Understand the earth as witness. Its simple, teeth-
owned life knows the white bone of a body belongs
To it. I find judgment in the weight of clothes and
The synthetic separation from the cold damp earth
And then consider what it means to be a canine of
The earth. To work against flesh for a return to dust.
Evan Burkin (he/him/his) is currently working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, where he serves as an assistant poetry editor for the grad-run literary journal, Fourteen Hills. His work has been published or is forthcoming in New American Writing, Allegory, THRUSH, Birdcoat Quarterly, and elsewhere.