Sylvan Lebrun is a student, poet, and musician living in Tokyo, Japan. Her work has been previously published in The Lavender Review, Bitterzoet Magazine, The Fourth River, and Crab Fat Magazine

the tower

a wildfire is started at torres del paine national park
           how much longer? asks the daughter of the mother i have not met yet
           sharpened ribbons like butterfly blades are cutting, have cut straight and sure
           through the curls in her hair, and soon,
           they will be severed entirely. fall to the river bed, dried and forgotten. sink into the mud.
           not long.
it never is.
our race is not a patient one—the arms of the universe know all and they accept this hurry
           never so audacious as to force us to hesitate.
           thank your local gas station. and your international orators, and the constellations that
           follow and disguise them.
my ancestors did not raise me to be complacent. did yours?
           i wish i could throw my head back, off my shoulders, rolling onto asphalt
          without wanting to catch my balance. she can. i envy her.
about three strides ahead of me at all time, she is skipping stones into the deluge.
i care, i care, i cannot go on like this.
stop me, sing to me. let a half-lung of tranquility be my vice—anything that strikes you

is this the way the deities’ chests seized when the mortal on the altar
          pulled a blade to their throat. and opened their eyes—
and then closed them
relaxed the tendons in their palms
walked away
off into the blessing of an eternal intake.