By W.C. Perry

close-up photo of rainfall

.

after Ocean Vuong

it’s happened this way
	since I was born:
another poet writes
	about soft, burning piles
of dried pine needles
	or rain whipping the tin roof
of a covered porch
	& my ears sting, a folktale
instead of a name
	a song in the space
between tongue & tooth
	fossilized like paper cranes
on a dust-painted bookshelf,
	implied movement of water
so solid with life
	I could walk to you.
ASCII shrug symbol

W.C. Perry is a writer from southern Ohio whose work has appeared in Meat for Tea, GRIFFEL, Lupercalia Press’ VULCANALIA ’21, and elsewhere. To contact this author, burn a candle on a starless night and scream into the nearest cornfield — they’ll get back to you eventually.


Why we chose this piece: The form. The images. The topic. The title. All of it, just wow. We loved seeing W.C. connect to a poet they love while making the poem their own. Reading this is like pulling on a warm sweater.

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1 Comment

  1. Love your work

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