The American Pastoral | Pratiksha Malayil

(Hold onto this blue almanac splattered 

with maize and soon sickly-syrup 

on the e-brake, the horn)

God is in the backyard under a freckled sky 

Under a grandfather kayak passed down with 

the fish and all the poisoning-seasonings 

down by the lake I thought of 

in the middle of Nebraska.

She crinkled like the magazine in her hands, 

along with extra large bandaids, a lone pack 

of rubber bands, the smallest bag of dish detergent you could buy. 

She drops the can of peaches for another headline

on the shelf and lets them dent

for mistake justification, to allow for garbage, and 

those types of natural cycles for 

me to disrupt with purpose as the only 

savior I could be, to bring it home and raise it.

I had brought the cheap poles out 

to trek to the middle of whatever had scared me 

with the tune of a bear bell to a lighthouse 

to a satellite green light I’d like to believe 

was a breathing star, or a plane – like Saturn, 

with rings or moons 

or something to give, like me 

on that lake in Nebraska bringing peaches.

But I was always bowing under myself – 

to how I raised you, to my saving act – 

though you will fold into something 

new when I break you

Saving purpose, showing everything is how it is to be

to complete the end at my hands 

Everything was consumption: 

all the actions were endings of something.

I threw the can like a rock and expected it to skip. 

It came back 

sinking as a ripple, over – 

letting me smile, forgiving the lack of loss for death in another form, one without 

something to live for

(There is no salvation in a waste 

of golden stagnant syrup baptized 

and starving in the water chasing –)

– me, coming back 

to hit my feet: it was reprehensible, 

becoming a word sweeter than the waiting.


Pratiksha Malayil is a senior majoring in Public Health at the University at Albany, from Long Island, New York. Her work explores systems and liminality, tracing lived experience between the physical and the abstract as it emerges through the tenderness of the everyday, the responsibility of attention. You can find more of her work on Instagram @pratikshamalayil.

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Trees Can’t Hurt Me | George McFarland