Sarah Horner

Asclepias

All these browning acres and yet life still sings:
a doe running to the stream, a bare oak tree,
a dozen weathered cattails. Today I breathe
shallow breaths, a fish in the beak of an egret,

and beg to harden. To clasp shut like a mollusk
so nothing can touch me. But I can’t ignore
the way the sun rolls under the treeline
each night and then returns, a promise.

I split a milkweed pod in two and rub the silk
between my fingers. When I let go, a wind gust
carries it away. Look how far you can get by
being soft, I remind myself. Look how far.

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Sarah Horner is a writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry and fiction are published in places such as Redivider, Palette Poetry, The Minnesota Review, Door Is A Jar and Lunch Ticket. In her work, she acknowledges the complexities of desire, queer femininity and our existence as beings with the intrinsic need to eat, play, touch, explore and form companionships. She is a recipient of the 2024 Walter Nathan Prize for Undergraduate Creative Writers.