Kimberly Kralowec is the author of The Saplings Think of Us as Young (Kelson Books, 2023) and a chapbook, We retreat into the stillness of our own bones (Tolsun Books, 2022). Her poetry appears in journals such as The Shore, wildness, Twyckenham Notes, and The Inflectionist Review, and she was recently named a finalist in the River Styx International Poetry Contest. A California native and a lawyer by profession, she lives in San Francisco.
WE MUST LEARN NOT TO WANT WHAT WE LOVE
When storm comes, it smells orange,
like lamplight. We listen to odd bird calls,
a lower pitch, sparrows on the verge
of evolving. Maybe they’ll never alight.
They will nest in the air, a new level.
My own is so high, I worry constantly
about falling—though your cheek rests
against my closed eye, your skin warm,
as if sun were on it. A poinsettia plant
droops on the porch. I remind myself:
these clouds are water, not smoke. Their
shade is too pale, and their rain falls
so straight the windows stay dry—an effect
of increased pull of earth. Remember:
few creatures can live on sunlight alone.
We make nothing. We only unleash it.
