bones, god

fake trees in the airport. do you
know that feeling
when you’re too far away to join a
conversation, but they’d
love to have you?
delayed flight in my
front right pocket, rub-burn in the
crease
between my thumb and
pointer.
I hate how
people just mind their business. hate it
like how the skin on the
backs of my hands is
peeling off and I
belong in the rockies, with the big
mountains that say voiceless things in the
language of the dirt.
pine tree sap under the
cheap tiles.
I hope that I get eaten by a bear or
something like that.
eaten by an avalanche like Marc-André.
not because I need to be remembered but
because
I want the
soil to swallow my bones
the spruces a
rock face
god (all the same thing anyway).
there is no god in suburbia. at least, I
cannot feel it.

Soncera Ball is an aspiring poet studying philosophy at Princeton University. She has previously been published in Zeniada Magazine and in Arch and Arrow Magazine. When she isn’t writing poetry, Soncera can be found rock climbing, stargazing with friends, making music, and frolicking in nature.