wildscape. literary journal

Vernal Equinox: Cincinnati Nature Center / Approaching the Last Day of Nature Preschool
by Ashley Kirkland

                        For Calvin

First: hepatica, lesser celandine, and marsh marigolds 
or cowslips, piping up among the spotted green of spring. 

The flowers are rich in my mouth and I want 
to say their names again: hepatica. Cowslip. Lesser 

celandine. Marsh marigold. These paths are rare, to be 
in the presence of old-growth trees: birch, maple, oak. Calvin 

drank sap from the maples this winter in his class, and I think
there is nothing more pure than a child discovering

nature over and over again. I want to be that curious,
to look at the world with my eyes wide, to drink it all in. 

Anymore I’m all bad news and a fire burning, 
unfathomable, into the sky, making it hard to see.

I like the stone steps that lead to the old pool, like
to imagine the original owners in their old-timey 

bathing suits swimming in the circular, concrete 
tank. Do you know the way sunlight marbles rippling

water? What about the sunlight breaking through
the canopy, only to land on the surface of the water 

and break again? If light had an action it would be to break,
the way we say dawn breaks, the way I break. The children 

are allowed to pick only certain yellow flowers, although 
I wonder if they can really tell the difference. At the end of the day,

Calvin bounds to me with a fist of yellow petals and I lose
them in the car, but for months I’ll remember his small hand

opening above mine, the petals, crinkled and sweaty, 
dropping softly, without feeling, into my palm. 

Now, Now
by Ashley Kirkland

                          First published by Gnashing Teeth Press on November 8, 2024

This many years and you’d think I could do something other than press 
myself up against tomorrow with my eyes closed. I never used to be this way:
laughing as I stare my problems in the face, all I’ll figure it out later. But 
then again, no one ever said this would happen. I was a kid on a kickball field, 

celebrating a homerun, yelling into the woods, fists raised above 
my head & now, now I’m pressing my eyelids together, peaking 
just a bit at what morning might bring. When I go downstairs, I am able 
to watch my son eat strawberries, watch as they take up the entirety 

of his small hand like little, red grenades. I am able to watch 
my older son, the look of terror on his face, as he slowly grasps 
what our short future might hold. I’ve made a habit of lying to him lately: 
It will be okay, I say, maybe more for myself than him. He cries into the couch 

pillows. I slide into the kitchen and brew coffee, feed the dog, take 
my morning pills. Pain doesn’t hurt until it does. Things aren’t bad until they are.

about the author // Ashley Kirkland