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  • Writer's pictureEvan Burkin

Polaroid in South Light

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.


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