
STILL PARADISE
Brandon Shane
Sunflowers swept my daughter
into grasshoppers hidden between
blades of grass, and springtime wind
was enough to keep her down. The clouds,
seagulls or geese, prawn or bluebird,
green onions dancing over soup.
It didn’t matter, all of it was a mixing bowl,
juniper branches, rosemary needles,
elder witchcraft that resulted
in hot cups of tea.
Weeds were yet to become ugly,
hills always overlooked oceans,
rather than roads that led to work
or cramps in the calves.
She was yet to experience
dogs in wild packs, the old drunk
who never saved a dime in youth.
Touching the white peels of a sycamore,
she kisses the bark, laughs at nothing,
knowing life in memory
of the brief years she has cradled
in her palm
like a bee mediating in the dark.
The chapels had yet to burn,
valleys unbothered by dynamite,
children never taken to an orphanage.
Sundown had yet to mean anxiety
and she still thought dad acted strange
when strangers knocked at midnight.
Rain was a stage for dance.
It had yet to matter
what she ate
or thought
about the world.
Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist, born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can see his work in trampset, Chiron Review, the Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Ink in Thirds, Dark Winter Lit, Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He graduated from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.