• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to footer
Diaspora Dialogues

Diaspora Dialogues

Supporting new fiction, poetry, and drama

Donate

Social Links Widget

  • Our Programs
    • Mentorship
    • Professional Development
    • TOK Magazine
    • FAQs
  • Our Writers
    • Mentors
    • Mentees
    • Writers Spotlight
  • News & Events
    • Anniversary Gala
    • Events
    • Writers Spotlight
    • Media
    • Monthly Newsletters
  • About Us
    • Our Team
    • The Board
    • Our Allies
    • Contact Us

Trading Countries

dd
Aaron Daigle
November 5, 2012
Share Tweet Share

It began with fog 
and headless homes.
We lose sight of star-markers;
streetlights burn out.
This is a world of crawlspaces,
children digging through mulch
or gravel. The steppe-streaming sun

uncoils, scalelight rasping stone.
We root into baked sand for bones,
pitch the worst of ourselves
into river.
         I think that if I touch her 
she'd unfold into cherry blossoms, skin 
slipping off, hoofbeats
in lieu of a pulse. I feel my own

composition: apples 
in my throat,
dry-brush ligaments.

Horizon peeks from valley's end, 
blue-eyed. I have seen these hills
on the other half of earth,

centuries soaked in the land's spine.

PreviousNext

Filed Under: November 2012, Shorthand Tagged With: Aaron Daigle, poetry, Shorthand

Footer

Our Programs

  • – Mentorship
  • – Professional Development
  • – TOK Magazine
  • – FAQs

Our Writers

  • – Mentees
  • – Mentors
  • – Writers Spotlight

News & Events

  • News
  • Events

About

  • – Our Team
  • – Board of Directors
  • – Our Allies
  • – Contact Us

Donate Now
Top