Sawdust

Natasha Bredle, United States

I had something to write, and then 

I lost it. Like those dense grains on the tree

that was cut down yesterday. I think

it haunted my dreams, but woke up 

remembering nothing, so I settled for pacing

at the place it used to be and tried to feel 

the heartbeat of the bird I once buried at its roots.

There it was: the open rhythm, the hatch 

closing, the grass turning yellow beneath snow. 

I wanted a seasonless place to feel constant, but became

a telescope, hand-held for observation. The instrument

incapable of utilizing itself. And I listened 

as the chainsaw fell silent and absence swelled in

the world. I was the world. My chest was empty.

The tree was not hollow, only reduced 

to bronze bone lying quietly. I wanted penance. I kissed

the ground until my lips were stained sinew. I tried to

dream again. I tried to be haunted. 

But I can only stare, lips sodden, at the sawdust.

Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Cincinnati. Her work has been featured in publications such as Words and Whispers, The Lumiere Review, and FERAL. She has received accolades from the Bennington College Young Writers Awards as well the Adroit Prizes. In addition to poetry and short fiction, she has a passion for longer works and is currently drafting a young adult novel.