Poetry by A. Rabaduex

                  ​David Prasad CC



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                                                               trees scream ultrasonic when thirsty

                                                                                                          If you are the eight minutes before we know
                                                                                                          the sun has exploded
                                                                                                          I am the last scent of a daydream

winter, want, water, seeds
world's largest organism – 4 mile fungus
it all begins underground

down there the sun is a rumor
I sit next to carved stone
whisper to my grandmother how it is up here

hotter now, burns blister quickly
miles away out my window
mountains on fire

sometimes bruised purple
is how songs are written
how we let ourselves sing

let ourselves believe
since she died 
I've been waiting to be buried

I've been listening for the sound of trees 
vibration starts in roots
works its way up

I thought I heard them once
they said they would drink the bones 
if they could




A. Rabaduex is a veteran, having translated Russian and worked as a paralegal for the Air Force for 7 (mostly fun) years. She now works as an adjunct professor teaching ethnographic writing and basic writing. Her poems are inspired by pantheism and etymology. Her most recent writing successes include winning contests in Causeway Lit, American Writers Review, and Sand Hills Lit, as well as being nominated for the first time for a Pushcart Prize by Gyroscope Review.
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