270°

270°

By Caleb Edmondson

Two brothers born from a plump chest  

of an aging forest. A sister follows later. 

They grow fast, become acquainted with natural  

things like waterfalls, sunburn, and death. 

Friendly most days, sparring here and there 

to learn the softest places to strike when  

necessary. They walk under dark canopies 

and discuss what it means to live as one 

with the worms stomped into muddied  

hills, come a cascade of hot summer rain.  

When faced with the prospect of hunger, 

they dine on elderberries and tea brewed  

from pebbles and river water. It tingles  

their tongues like a pepper, or a lesson  

mother preached, how to hear the music  

in the evening wind, to find purpose in pinecones,  

their mathematically kindled torsos, an algorithm  

in action. Giving in. The same as giving up. 

It’s better to forget. Broken fingers and toes, 

misshapen digits. The children’s heads slanted 

toward whatever morning slices through fogged  

lenses. Light with the heft to make matter move.