After we dropped yellow heart leaves,
and pissed beneath cold stars,
you turned over in bed to ask        when my face looks like old tree bark will you
eat me?

I replied not likely.

Aloe sizzled on skin,
baked hot as river rocks, running in the long shadow
of your lightly furred spine.

In winter, my grandmother was scattered
among the roots in my backyard.
This summer, you said that if I learned the names of these strange stems, this place
could be just like home.
Out here, mosses, like shadow people,
could all be the same.

This morning, I decided to be ash mixed with the roots of the lychee tree
instead of laying with misnamed leaves.


So Pink In That Light

by Rebecca Stevens

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Rebecca Stevens

Rebecca Stevens (she/her) was raised on the island of Kaua'i. She is currently studying Psychology and Creative Writing at Haverford College, and post-grad intends to return home and give back to her community by connecting people with mental health resources. She believes that home-baked bread and radical hospitality have the potential to transform the world, and dreams about the queer future resting just over the horizon.

Payment can be given at @Rebecca-Stevens-24 on Venmo