Inherited Soil by Olya K-Mehri

Inherited Soil I used to walk that field after rain, the air dim and streaked with afterlight. Roots pushed up like ribs in the dirt, unbraiding the dark that held them as stones shifted in their sleep. Each season something gave out— the green thinned, copper bled through, and one morning the ground blushed with the last of its colour. I pressed my hand there, felt loss flicker—mineral, unsaid,…