Its rooting tendrils shoot deep winding down into the earth, embedding in the dark soil of thoughts rich with the wounds we still cling to. Clutching great loss even after it is all over, following loss even if tiny spines pierce the heel of our heart, with prickles almost invisible but we know it is terrible to pry them out. To think again, to breathe again, to begin again. Spines press pain into our skin when we tug the roots, take another breath.
Amy Madson (she/her) is a writer and teacher from Minnesota. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Concordia University, Saint Paul. Her poems and short stories have appeared in Feel Literary Magazine, Lunae Literature & Review, B O D Y, The Nelligan Review and elsewhere.
