it is human nature to want to build something

substantial and wonder why our bridges fall

 

like fever. upon conversion from spruce to roof,

the eastern hemlock remains square-shouldered

 

unhungry for sun. a hospital falls in the forest

and everyone can hear it, but you wouldn’t know.

 

the frame of my first home, a place to dream

walls onto bones; in the backyard: three pine trees

 

as surrogate mothers searching for their children

searching for their limbs. books of aftermath

 

on classroom shelves full of featureless figures

drumlined over rockets, ships, blimps, then me,

 

reluctant survivor stretching fingers across

the gray victims, too young to picture their faces

 

too safe to see the size of their crowd. learning

eventually every echo goes unanswered

 

somewhere in the world. the day we move i bury

the woody wedge of a pinecone beside the porch

 

since i believe everyone’s intent is to be good,

unaware mulch and soil boast different creators

 

unaware the sun can’t reach the seeds still at home

in their husk, unaware that no amount of protection

 

will ever grow into a stalwart tree that refuses

to abandon its spire and survive the winter alone.

 

Amanda Nicole Corbin

Amanda Nicole Corbin is an Ohio-based poet who has had her work published in The London Magazine, Door is a Jar, Pile Press, Gone Lawn, the Notre Dame Review, and more. Her debut full-length collection, addiction is a sweet dark room, (Another New Calligraphy, 2024) focuses largely on her journey and struggles with mental health and addiction. Find her on Threads and Instagram at @ancpoet or www.amandanicolecorbin.com.