no greater grace than to be
stirred awake like milky morning coffee
by the dawn's clever fingers.
i wish i was the oak tree that
bends without bending in the
groves of my kingfisher youth.
like sunlight on my face forests were
there and then gone,
sizzling like fluffy eggs over our flame,
too soon salted and too splintery.

like the moth in the tree in the sunlight
i will crave what glows and what
gentle nectars are to be found beyond.
waking is anticipatory joy and the
bitter pain of my straining body.
am i the moth that coils and jerks
in the twilight and twilight of its
hungry life?
or am i the sapling, newborn?

like the tree that hosts moths
and sips sun i am pushing all of my
clear spirit out to myriad branches
until some of the world splits the yolk of me
and i run golden and glowing
down a procession of moths, setting them to
burn in the bright stoves of my heart. grace spatters
like cooking grease in my hair. i am the sun
and like trees and moths i am birthed and
burned by my rising light. how we shivered and
spat the forests out, growing up.

Natasha King is Vietnamese American writer and cat lover, among other things. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Glintmoon, Lily Poetry Review, and others. She lives in North Carolina for now, and reserves her spare time for writing, prowling, and thinking about the ocean.