Maya C. Popa

Not the Wound, but What the Wound Implies

Who can say
what the tulips dream
in a hard frost,
the sky as cold
as it is clear
and still unreadable.

Or how pain
decides what stays
in memory, a gift

broken by the time
it reaches us,
silvered, gleaming with age.

‍

Note: These poems are reprinted from Wound is the Origin of Wonder (W.W. Norton)

Write with us. Learn with us. Publish with us.
Join a growing community of poets & readers.
Early access to calls, workshops, and updates.
Thank you! Your submission has been received!
Oops! Something went wrong while submitting the form.
No spam. No ads. No data-selling. Unsubscribe anytime.
MEMBERSHIP PORTAL    |    FAQ   |    SUBMIT
2025 ONLY INK, Inc. All rights reserved.
ONLY POEMS®️ and associated marks are trademarks of ONLY INK, Inc. All individual works are copyrighted by their respective authors. All poems, essays, and artworks published on this site remain the intellectual property of their creators and may not be reproduced without explicit permission. The views expressed in published works are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of ONLY INK, Inc., its editors, or affiliated entities. While many works draw on lived experience, they may contain fictionalized elements; no reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred. ONLY POEMS is an ad-free, independent, reader-supported publication.