Behind the Trees
Where does placid passion reside? Behind the trees?
For in the rolling red clay you hide behind the trees.
Necks craned bodies carved—we seal the broken sky,
as gilded-feathered birds of whiskey glide behind the trees.
“Our Nǚwā molded us from honey” / “Can you hear us?
Ma!” / Prophets peons serfs abide behind the trees.
Missed the boat / Knot untangled / Do I live undone?
Dried dock defied / Cunning ravens collide behind the trees.
Sipping from suspended orange blossoms, I hear
demise of azure / Adam chides behind the trees.
Crystal lionesses prod & pirouette on pearl,
pinning vivid opera chimes on hair of Naugahyde behind the trees.
Are these bones of soot mine, Nǚwā?
You forged me from ropes of snide, behind the trees?
How your teardrops look like trinkets in the rain!
To your ode even desert clairvoyants replied behind the trees.
Home is mine under scorching, crashing tides of pretense—
nimble owls pray to Rigel from inside behind the trees.
Is that petaled face of amethyst yours, mother?
Alas, love, such you cannot decide behind the trees.
By Amy Liu
Amy Liu is a woman of color and 16-year-old poet based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, who is passionate about leading intersectional activism via poetry and literature. Her poetry is featured in National Braille Press, Neshaminy Journal, Her Culture, and more.