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Alina Kalontarov
Evergreen
All summer, I resolve to live
forever. There is no better time to fuck
the line, conceive a circle. When again
will I have these sun-soaked eyes,
this homebound skin?
I swing by body in the lofty womb
of the hammock. Even here, cradled
in midair, I’m still closer to the earth than sky.
The birds land in the boughs above, startled
by their own return. The arborist
proclaimed the oak was generations
old, its roots nestled deep
in another century. Even after all this time,
I remember the hour of my birth—
how it felt to be held in my entirety,
dreaming up the swollen lung
of the world. How I arrived
with empty hands. The feast I made
of breath.