Pincushion Moss

A cool darkness
across our eyelids
Were we facing north?

We could become trees
and people would touch
our faces
to find their way

We shouldn’t have been surprised to find
moss growing beneath our feet
We had done nothing for so long
and had been warned to keep moving

We were afraid to walk
on the soft undulations of moss
but it seemed to beckon
and heal some rip in our aura
a rip like a hole in our socks
that we didn’t know we had

By Melanie DuBose

Melanie DuBose advocates for equity in arts education and teaches filmmaking to teenagers in East LA. Recent poems have appeared in Nixes Mate Review, Neologism Poetry Journal, Red Flag Poetry Express, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, Tiny Seed, and Contemporary Haibun, among others.