ink

by Jackie Hollowell

Childhood / is only a cage / that widens

from “Dear Peter” by Ocean Vuong

Of my childhood,

I want to give you 

the parts I like to 

remember. 

I’ll write down 

as much as I can 

before god catches up. 

He was there for a while—

in my sister’s room,

my mother’s garden.

In my grandmother calling my name

while she still knew it.

The ink only falls 

on the previous page 

but I keep turning it 

anyway. I think, 

maybe the leaf can return 

to the branch 

and it does, 

if you write long enough. 

If you live long enough. 

Back when I was a girl 

I wasn't yet a girl, 

just an abjuration 

of moss 

being pulled 

from stone. 

Please don't take 

my hands from the soil; 

I want to go home. 

The ink is running out but 

I still have so much childhood left 

before I’m turned to salt.

Jackie Hollowell is an extremely queer poet originally from the Pacific Northwest but now lives in Vietnam. She has a love/hate relationship with capital letters and an all-hate relationship with capitalism. They have been published in or have work forthcoming from The Dawn Review, The Wayfarer, and Rogue Agent. Find them online: @6_Hollowell.