at one time we couldn’t see
where the water was born,
the thick tangle of branches
of the cloud forest,
its birdsong, all birthing
but you standing above
little children with your belt
but the forest was felled,
leaves dried into soil,
the one with the big
metal buckle, whipping it
the grass left to grow,
the fence posts pounded
just close enough
so they feel its wind
deep into the soil,
the water thinned.
the promise of its
bite, laughing when
The barbed wire wound
so tightly, so sharp, even
they flinch. You are
careful not to hit
the thickest of skins
bleed. The water thinned,
them—only the walls
behind them, the bench
nearly disappeared.
There is danger
you make them sit on.
Tell me, do you feel
here, and no water, but
how else to keep them safe?
how the wood under
them, behind them,
It must hurt enough
on the inside so the outside
hardens to withstand
your hand? It
disappears, so they believe
this pasture, this grass
will be years before
it softens just enough
is all they can have.
All they should have.
to return to itself again—
but it does. It does.
Copyright © 2025 by Brandy Nālani McDougall. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 29, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
