i am home in the mountains and
my ears hum with the whispers of restless ancestors.
i will never be the daughter that was prayed for. you gave me
the name of a saint from your homeland,
and now my hands shake when i am forced to write it.
the only angels left here
are the girls with colorfully lined eyes
who only promise that someday they will leave this town.
they wear their pride like heirloom amulets—
we can’t look too carefully for protection around here in appalachia,
where memories of our myths
were all our god saw fit to give us. i scatter timid white irises
along the side of the highway and tell myself that
i too will be carried away by the wind.
Emily Frost (they/she) is an overworked computer science student by day (and night as well, usually) and a poet whenever she has free time. She edits with publications such as the Lumiere Review and the Farside Review. Her work has been featured/is forthcoming in places such as Southchild Lit, the Winnow, and Von Aegir Lit. Her writing has been recognized by the Interlochen Center for the Arts. She absolutely adores obscure historical facts, dark roast coffee, and angsty folk-rock about messy relationships. You can find her on Twitter @saidemilyfrost.