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Call It All Becoming


Artwork by Isabelle Lu, staff artist

I thought I’d found a place to lie;

good thing I left, a moment shy

of fallen teeth on dirty ground—

that guilt, that gold, that grind, uncrowned.

Soft gums become a cold goodbye.


I skipped through ice to meet the high,

which left my pyre in short supply.

Between their stakes, I waltz around.

What am I becoming?


My thoughts unthaw onto clean eyes

of storm-tossed blue who climbs, who cries.

I crystallized the safe and sound.

For stepping back, I’ll be renowned.

As I breathe out, these cliffs will die.

Call it all becoming.

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