by Josh Lechner

Mom used to only cry behind doors.

She let things eat at her,

but she kept her termites to herself.

 

We were the wood chairs and the walls,

a fir sister, a spruce brother.

Something to throw, something to punch.

 

I think my dad was the hive;

The termites had to come from somewhere.

They seldom hid in the cracks of mom’s mouth.

 

Dad’s words always buzzed swiftly back after.

My oak mind always remembers.

Every time she was eaten alive,

 

a new ring grew in my brain, so arborists

in a hundred years will know how old I was.

She offered flesh. She said our bark would remain.

 

She will always come out with more skin.

 

 

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     Josh studies English with a concentration in creative writing at OSU. He writes poetry and nonfiction, but his main passion is in writing fiction that focuses on queer experiences and coming-of-age storylines. In his free time, Josh can be found listening to Taylor Swift, reading fantasy novels, or buying candles he doesn’t need. He lives in Oklahoma City with his fiancé and dog.