​​{EMMA EISENSTEIN CA. 1870} by ryn weil

​They stare at me through windows crystalized
Over years and years
From gardens I will never see
Lost to highways, houses
Their jewelry and little bones
Removed, poured in concrete
For a new franchise gym
I breathe on the frames of ancient doors
To create maps of our faces with water-swollen fingertips
Blood left on the lentil
Cut from my own lamb palms
Reading tiny notes with phrases I can’t decipher
But the meaning doesn’t matter only the translation
Their letters reframe me, reminding, echoing
Shoving me back to my beginning
A name connected to lines
That pulse through each initial
Whispering they once lived
In my cells
I won’t continue but
I will give them memory. 

---

ryn is a hermit who lives with dogs and bees. she has been published in Riggwelter Press, Occulum, Luna Luna Magazine, and others.