Ariel Machell

How to tend to

the forestry of your cat’s face,
the long grasses reaching— 

Don’t pluck as children do
in mounds on dew-heaped hills. 

Caress as though a harp.
Glide as the wingtips 

of a pelican cresting a wave.
Though if you must pluck, do so 

as delicate as the first time
you lifted your father’s guitar 

and gave a childish strum.
You might remember 

you heard music.
There was none. 

You must give up
your dreams of straight lines. 

Nothing can move that way,
and memory only 

in circles.
Remember now 

to slide the dust
off the strings. 

Listen to that purr.
You have learned so much 

about kindness.
How it wants to be given 

like a seed to a stream.
It might grow 

or it might sink,
but isn’t it soft 

leaving the hands?
Isn’t it soft.

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Ariel Machell is a poet from California. She received her MFA from the University of Oregon in 2021. She is an Associate Poetry Editor for Northwest Review. Her work has been published in The Pinch, SWWIM Every Day, Up the Staircase Quarterly and elsewhere. Her poem, “Devotion,” was recently nominated for Best New Poets 2022.