Concrete and Cabbages by Joshua Barnhart
Have you ever seen the sun set
through the grip of a palm frond?
The way tangerine and lavender cuts
through the leaves? The way
the leaves cut through
flesh if pressed? A young frond
emerges folded, the area called
the cabbage. The city
skyline is littered with sharp
cabbages tilting their heads. I once saw
an overgrown palm drop
with a sigh. The serrated
green landed on the hood
of a parked car. I’ve seen them
come and go, another season
another family of owls nesting
in the highest tuft, their quiet life
like a poem, pollen hanging
on the evening. They sing an alien
love song for the gloaming. I guess
I don’t know much
about owls, only my own silent drift,
the quiet fervor when the sun
sinks low, the soft moon. Dreams
scurry the dirt lots
and laneways, wander the never-
dark night, and I contemplate sky
cabbages and owls, the coyote
tip-toeing Silver Lake Blvd., missing cat
posters stapled to the skinny tree trunks.
Joshua Barnhart (he/they) is a poet, educator, and musician from California who performs music under the name Strange Pilgrim. Their first chapbook, Paper Ghosts, is out from Bottlecap Press, and their work has also been featured in Blue Mountain Review and The Coachella Review. He earned a BA in English from UC Berkeley and graduated from Oregon State University’s MFA program. Josh currently lives, works, and performs in Portland, OR.