Poetry by Ashley Howell Bunn

     Timo Newton-Syms CC




cicada arcana

the wingless cicadas are active underground
decomposition of sap tells them when to move
through the effacement of soil and earth

my father, The Empress,
reigns in space outside of lack
now lives in abundance 

like the buried cicadas
my baby waits
when a man bleeds the world stops

for seventeen years before emergence
wings bursting for their last moments
leaves, light, singing, climaxing

a chance to grow his roots 
again in 
nitrogen

check my underwear for signs of labor

some bloody show to show no one 
only my cervix keeps us whole

stars
created by stars before them
let him rest

this periphery of sun and leaves 

we all begin again
exhale a death
inhale a crowning
an empress 

the cicadas are coming this year

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12

what do i say to you. to you whom i have harmed most. letting you hide bottles in your purse. leaving you passed out in the back of the car. slipping you pills after too much wine. hiding the bruises up and down your arms. you, who did not how to be loved. how to let yourself love without anesthetic or condition. your mother sent you a bowl. just like the one from your childhood. blue and white. painted owls. a lid to hold moisture and let the rice rise in small clouds. when the lid broke, you wondered if you did it on purpose. perhaps you dont want to remember those moments. a loving but lost father. a present but distant mother. so you broke the bowl. i can tell you its ok. but i dont know if you will believe me. you have forgiven your father for drowning himself. you almost drowned too. you know he didnt mean to. that he didnt want to. that he loved you. your mother, however, you dont know anymore. you never really knew. how can you let go of things you dont understand. let the bowl be filled with something else. let it hold what you have and rest on the kitchen table. you dont need to understand everything. just so you know, i forgive you. and  i am learning to love you. we live our amends in small moments. the walk to the bus. the door opened for another. the easy breath at the end of meditation. the fresh apples sliced in the blue bowl. the corn powder smell of the dog’s ear. sipping coffee with sugary sun sifted into patterns on the hardwood. a child’s  small flower breaths before daybreak. 
                                                                                                the slow and thick light of grace

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Ashley Howell Bunn (she/they) completed her MFA in poetry through Regis University and holds a MA in Literature from Northwestern University. She is an experienced yoga guide trained in a variety of styles, including Yoga of Recovery- which has been crucial to her own recovery. Her poetry has been published in a variety of online and print publications, and her first chapbook, in coming light, was published in 2022 by Middle Creek Publishing. She is a somatic coach and she offers somatic writing workshops through her personal business Howell and Heal. She lives in Denver, CO with her children and partner where she enjoys walking in the sunshine.