MOTHER

I might settle on the Israeli shore of the Dead Sea;
I might build a cruciform shack and watch it recede.
Or, perhaps, I'll follow it as it goes,
Until it's a pond, until it's a puddle.
There at the final point of recession
Will be you, eyes jeweled over,
Bellyfull of salt, and a pouch
With rose-colored stones and
My name, embroidered blue.
Here, I think, I will retire.
I will lie beside you
Until the salt forms
a crystalline
sepulcher
for two.


ARLENE STARK is a university student from northern Wisconsin. She loves cheap coffee, birding, and studying literature. She is an aspiring librarian and an occasional poet. Her writing explores longing, grief, and the solace offered by the natural world. She can be found on Instagram @arlenestark_.