Apricot Press

If you’re not totally saved, you’re completely lost

By Ashley O’Neil

reads the church sign on my way to work. 
But, isn’t that all of us? 
On this strange and dying planet
with skies that bloom smoke 
from tindered earth
where whales stop singing. 
Collective grief leaves 
only sighs. 

What can I give you from these ashes?
We have swung the axe,
stand at the foot of this once blessed poplar tree. 
I cannot give you the promise 
of veined hands in fertile soil.
I cannot give you a place untouched 
by this insatiable hunger. 
I’m sure we're already eating our own hands. 

And yet 

I see you take the morning sunrise and dance
on the groomed beach sand, 
entranced with the shadow of your own making. 
So I continue to give you this grass. 
This shrinking island. 
Salvation in your twirling silhouette.

Jar Full

By Ashely O’Neil

I try to keep memories. Small trinkets we collect. 
A ridged shell, red tipped.
The rock with its dent that fits your thumb 
perfect for worrying. 

We store them in a jar that sits on the China cabinet
they left in a garage after my grandmother’s death. 
Only here because no one else wanted it. 
The pediment, once polished 
now draped in satin pothos. 

This time, I’m sure I will remember 
where this stone came from. I’ll call up the shore
and see the way we danced in the pinking sun. 
The name of that park, with its winding path
will come easy to my tongue. 

Inevitably though, this rock will become like the rest. 
Part of this jar full of small things with no distinction. 
We just know they are important to keep. 
Synecdoche for the life we’re loving worn.

Photo credit: Valentina Kondrasyuk