by Isabel Houck
as if the world isn’t a flying
object, i wrap my arms around as
much of what can be held. sing to
drown out the pulse of toads, human
noise by the fire, the sound that might
be rain. the illegal island floats on the
lake. this universe is slower than
the next. don’t listen to carl sagan,
these stars aren’t apart of the cartilage
in our noses. this valley isn’t made
of the same bones of the people by
the fire, the instruments, the bottles
of black rum, the thorns that spoon
blackberry bushes on the island.
Author Biography: Isabel Houck is a junior at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. There she studies creative writing and struggles with her coffee addiction.