A Hero Above Us
the boy is oiled with sun, his golden feet propelling him forth,
a tiny, fuzzy body sinking to its target. antennas flick forward like
he is carrying something bigger than himself, a war is brewing.
She knows little of the purple flower field lines she flies over.
Tell Persia they can not stand a chance! so he runs, legs pumping,
Mandibles searching, the pollen basket heavy on her tibia, so now
he must fulfill a message to lay in the stars. It is so imperative,
a flower’s beauty can not stray her, but legs kiss the earth
and Sparta must come to aid so they send him to run another:
a message. And her pollinating yields flavorful, juicing fruit.
Which tastes sour to a man who has run miles of red dirt.
She flies over the greenery of her life’s work, a life given by
Messages, blubbering from his exhausted lips as he dies:
honey bees, a modern Pheidippides, the Greek who was able
to save a nation. will the people let these insects run?
a tiny, fuzzy body sinking to its target. antennas flick forward like
he is carrying something bigger than himself, a war is brewing.
She knows little of the purple flower field lines she flies over.
Tell Persia they can not stand a chance! so he runs, legs pumping,
Mandibles searching, the pollen basket heavy on her tibia, so now
he must fulfill a message to lay in the stars. It is so imperative,
a flower’s beauty can not stray her, but legs kiss the earth
and Sparta must come to aid so they send him to run another:
a message. And her pollinating yields flavorful, juicing fruit.
Which tastes sour to a man who has run miles of red dirt.
She flies over the greenery of her life’s work, a life given by
Messages, blubbering from his exhausted lips as he dies:
honey bees, a modern Pheidippides, the Greek who was able
to save a nation. will the people let these insects run?
Playing with Fire (gods)
Make habit of harvesting nature’s gut from burned areas for the clay is redder where endangered
white sage smokes, and mix with the river water and roll in the grog and pound like a drum
leading the war, choreographing an army of butterflies who do not want to die or worse be dead
like the clay bones stolen while they slept. Wedge this spit-stained, this salmon-fat clay, and
wash hands while there is water and hands are red because the earth is on fire for longer every
new harvest season. The cacti kiss the bats, giving them a heavy yellow message, giving them a
chance to save the most destructive animal on the planet. And wedge the clay, bony elbows
jut-out stooped in front of a wheel, red fingers trembling because forehead is sweating but the
kiln isn’t even on so it must be the forest outside so it must be the flames squatting past the hill
hissing and popping and burning the crowded flower village and head down, elbows thrust soft
stone in the middle of the wooden bat and now spinning and spinning the water off the clay and
spinning as a young tendon-sharp girl in a field with a nape dripping frothy stream water. Center
the piece and invoke the cool stench of porous minerals, something alike in the hands pulling the
walls up to the ceiling of the small yurt on a mountain and it is a moth’s fluffy wings weighed
down with ash swallowed in escaping headlights and pull the wall pull pull even if the clay does
not move even if. Step back now, daughter, slice the bottom, pull a part a new bowl from brown
bat and step up now, the bubble in the clay is mirrored in the moon and that clot in the sky is
mirrored in the bloody red skin, and this time a fire god harvests humans who are digging for
guts in his family’s burial ground and sets their ribs gently in his new bowl.
white sage smokes, and mix with the river water and roll in the grog and pound like a drum
leading the war, choreographing an army of butterflies who do not want to die or worse be dead
like the clay bones stolen while they slept. Wedge this spit-stained, this salmon-fat clay, and
wash hands while there is water and hands are red because the earth is on fire for longer every
new harvest season. The cacti kiss the bats, giving them a heavy yellow message, giving them a
chance to save the most destructive animal on the planet. And wedge the clay, bony elbows
jut-out stooped in front of a wheel, red fingers trembling because forehead is sweating but the
kiln isn’t even on so it must be the forest outside so it must be the flames squatting past the hill
hissing and popping and burning the crowded flower village and head down, elbows thrust soft
stone in the middle of the wooden bat and now spinning and spinning the water off the clay and
spinning as a young tendon-sharp girl in a field with a nape dripping frothy stream water. Center
the piece and invoke the cool stench of porous minerals, something alike in the hands pulling the
walls up to the ceiling of the small yurt on a mountain and it is a moth’s fluffy wings weighed
down with ash swallowed in escaping headlights and pull the wall pull pull even if the clay does
not move even if. Step back now, daughter, slice the bottom, pull a part a new bowl from brown
bat and step up now, the bubble in the clay is mirrored in the moon and that clot in the sky is
mirrored in the bloody red skin, and this time a fire god harvests humans who are digging for
guts in his family’s burial ground and sets their ribs gently in his new bowl.
Liz spends her time camping in the mountains of Idaho and swimming in the surrounding rivers. She is the Co-Leader of the Youth Salmon Protectors, a coalition working to save endangered Northwest salmon. This conservation work has driven her to meet with Senators, members of Congress, and artists for t-shirts and mural designs. She volunteers as a wilderness steward for trail restoration, and at a local Buddhist temple. She throws pottery in her free time, rock climbs, and enjoys Oolong tea. She is the first queer All Student Body President at her high school and a rising freshman at Brown University for the class of 2026. She currently works at a local organic plant nursery.