Poem of the week: How to Be a Fern by Kit Fan
How to Be a Fern
Blue-white then inky grey then hailstonesgo pitter-patter on the glass.The city I loved whose name I’ve erased returnsbetween me and the glassas the thunder bends like saxophonesburied inside one of Keats’s urns. the city insinuates.A legion of storm clouds evaluatesme. I was young, openedtoo soon and the wind tore it apartjust like that. Wind was never a cityexcept when it drained the blood,stuffed silences like cotton woolinto my ears, eyes, nose, asshole,mouth, and preserved what was left in me in mudSilence is the city I still kiss, not reasonwith. Many springs have swung byand I keep kissing, unfurling my tonguefor the city in me I can’t returnto isn’t rain, wind, or glass. I’m no fern.Tell me how to be, and I’ll learnand unlearn.
