mykal june / poem
Cross Pollination
Winter had not been hard enough on nature. So in spring, when the trees came they were all too ready for the love that loves everything alkaline yellow.
Forty feet up, a bridge spans
this neighborhood and a man
finished
released himself to the gravity
of a wire necktie.
In that moment of consciousness after the mind goes freelance there was an exponent of terror, sure, but
just maybe
there was vindication in proving
which was really the messier
of two ends. A burst of seed
for fertile purchase versus
thin gauge razoring through the neck.
Seconds before impact, I know
his body swept through treeline.
Small yellow life
whipped from his path before
crowding the street. And
that is how they found him.
Headless and surrounded
by children who stared as if
some tree had really messed up.
To everything there is a season. Trees know this and the head that authorities had to search for knew it too. There are, indeed, seasons but autumn is just another word for fall and spring is simply wire, coiled.
Mykal June is a writer, producer, and musician in Atlanta, Georgia. Most recently making podcasts for iHeartRadio, she spent over a decade in public radio at WABE, where her work earned awards from the Georgia Association of Broadcasters and the Associated Press. She is co-host of Write Club, a live literary series which kicks the ass of most any poetry reading you’d care to name. Her writing has appeared in The Bitter Southerner, Creative Loafing Atlanta, SLAB, Aaron Mahnke’s 13 Days of Halloween podcast, and the anthologies Bare-Knuckled Lit and 12 Authors 12 Stories 2018. She records music as meaning of everything.
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