for Eileen, forever ago – Poetry by Han Raschka

brown grass feels like disappearing acts (she left, she’s gone, buried beneath)

i miss the way she painted the sun (do i see her in it sometimes? maybe, but i wonder if she’s stars instead)

i fractured my index finger (i was trying to dig her up, find the bones of a girl who ran like whispers)

i gave her my constellations (i hope she still sees them, counts the fireflies, and tells them to come home)

the earth swallows her (she’s stuck in its throat, i can’t let her slide all the way down)

i am wilted (there is a hole where the moon fits, she lives on it, in it, in me). 
Han Raschka

Han Raschka (they/them), is a bipolar, bicoastal, non-binary poet currently residing in Boston, MA. Born in the Midwest and forged by both the arts and an unhealthy dose of Catholic fear, Han spends their time drinking coffee at an unacceptable time, begging their mother for pictures of their three dogs, and writing poetry like it hasn’t gone out of fashion. You can find Han on Facebook, Instagram, and other social media sites.

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