DAY 22
the pandemic between us
Blackened trees are falling
one after another in northern California.
Your chainsaw might be a spoon
cutting through dark chocolate cake.
Where I am, roses confetti the ground—lavender,
magenta, pink, white, yellow.
It’s midday tomorrow in Marlborough and I’m
reading your letter under the arms of a pine
whose body is large as a house
whose centre is hollow and black.
Even with 6,926 miles and 19 hours between us
we are close
as cake and sprinkles. We are near
what fire devours.
Amy Leigh Wicks is an American poet in New Zealand. She holds a PhD from Victoria University of Wellington and an MFA from The New School. Author of The Dangerous Country of Love and Marriage (Auckland University Press) and Orange Juice and Rooftops (Eloquent Books), she likes poetry, finger painting, and motorcycles.
