by Jenny Wong
the sun is alone
in its black spun space
a peach-streaked sky in its wake
while we debate if pits are things
to be filled or swallowed –
emptiness or seed
consider the word pare
which is a knife
peeling away the unneeded
leaving a bare sweetness
that can only be appreciated
by a wordless tongue
Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. She resides in the foothills of Alberta, Canada and is currently attempting to create a poetry collection about locations and regularly visit her local boxing studio. Recent publications include Atlas & Alice, Whale Road Review, Lost Balloon, Ellipsis Zine and FlashFlood 2020.
Emerge Literary Journal 