Surrender

You were born
to open
like a flower,

made to grow
in language.

Your cupped hands
are full with sea water.
Your skin prunes.

Memorizing
the morning fog

before wrinkles
are drawn in ink,

before forgetting how
to read,

you know
your sprouted face
was not cast in stone.

You know
you are a fading
moon,

that you too will turn
to dust.

When the sun scatters,
when the afternoon
darkens

you will plant a garden
of green and burgundy.

You will let go
of needing to always be here.

Natalie Marino is a mixed-race poet and physician. Her work appears in Gigantic Sequins, Plainsongs, Pleiades, Rust + Moth, Salt Hill, South Florida Poetry Journal, West Trestle Review and elsewhere. She is the author of the micro-chapbook Attachment Theory (Ghost City Press, 2021) and the chapbook Under Memories of Stars (Finishing Line Press, 2023). She lives in California. You can find her online at nataliemarino.com or on Instagram @natalie_marino.