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.