Remember: We Are Wild
Sarina Bosco


            to my brother

No one after us will know
what birch bark is like; or that the skin
of a cherry tree in spring is similar,
curling up toward our fingertips.
It rained blossoms for about seven years (one of
those years lonely, before you came). We are
not creatures of many words, and so
I ask you to recall the dianthus white
like scars and the milkweed
that we unfurled (secrets, whispers, eyelashes – all
synonymous, all carrying seeds).

The thrumming, too, and the beasts
like us. The deer that let us get close enough
to see the velvet on their buds and the hawks
that we never feared. Through all of it
barefoot. Through all of it together. Truly

I cannot remember sounds rising from our throats
other than humming; except for late summer when
the fireflies stopped coming and I turned to you
to say that we needed to grow up, that there was

no more time for play. Sometimes when you sleep
I go outside and pull birch branches from
where they rot among the pine needles. No one
after us will know.


Sarina Bosco is a chronic New Englander and reluctant homeowner. Her work has appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and Digging Through the Fat. When not writing, she spends her time on the surrounding hiking trails.