Elya Braden

When I return from visiting my newly widowed friend in Seattle,

every wave swallowing the wet fringes
of an empty beach mourns impermanence,
how our nourishment depends on stealing
others’ lives. Now they’ve documented

the secret language of mushrooms
under purple leaf litter, proved that even
carrots, thistle are sentient, I don’t know
what I can ingest without shuttering
some voice whispering poems to the soil.

At a street market in Japan, my arms winged
a dialect of cranes & cuttlefish to bargain
for an apricot & celadon vintage kimono, its flowering
fabric scented with the history
of someone else’s life. I’ve stopped

complaining about my husband’s whistled
snores on nights he carbo-loads, washes
up between our sheets like local
harbor seals piled up on boat docks, so

grateful he’s still breathing, still
anchored to our bed, our life.

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Elya Braden is a writer and mixed-media artist living in Ventura County, CA, and is an editor for Gyroscope Review. She is the author of the chapbooks, Open The Fist (2020) and The Sight of Invisible Longing (2023). Her work has been published in Anti-Heroin Chic, Burningword Literary Journal, Sequestrum, The Louisville Review, Thimble, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best New Poets. www.elyabraden.com.