Air/born

by Jennifer Hudak

Born of seed and loam, of water and earth,

the trees of this wood have become instead

airborne:

naked roots grasping,

dangling, gasping, straining for soil.

Unmoored oaks float homeless and

askew—groundless, baseless—

while filaments that bind the dirt

below—torn and mourning—

burrow deeper in defeat.

Yet the branches still strain for sunlight!

Reaching gnarled fingers ever upward

grasping at spun-sugar clouds dangling just out of reach

and the stars above with their come-hither winks.

A wood where trees would tear themselves in two,

divided in desire:

to sleep supported beneath a blanket of soil—

and to thrash with laughter

in the thinning

air.

Jennifer Hudak (she/her) is a Nebula-nominated speculative fiction writer fueled mostly by tea. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in venues such as Strange Horizons, The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy, Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, and The Sunday Morning Transport. She is a graduate of the Viable Paradise workshop and a member of the Codex Writers' Group. Originally from Boston, she now lives with her family in Upstate New York where she teaches yoga, knits pocket-sized animals, and misses the ocean.