top of page

[Poetry] Three Poems by Bronte Pearson

How to Remember You Are Alive


Warm water trickling on your skin like starlight and the glide of brisk lotion sharpening your legs

and the immaculate forty-five-degree angle of black at the corner of each eye

and the sparkle of gold paint on your lips

and the gust of hot air that dries your hair in seconds

and the safe scratch of a knitted sweater

and the cupping of faux leather around your heel

and the lick of heat upon your forehead as you open the back door

and the pillow of weeds floating beneath your feet

and your daughter blowing the dandelion seeds with her dragon breath

and the cat’s eyes gleaming like citrine

and the clouds weaving against the sky like muslin

and the electricity of iced tea on your tongue to negate your bask

and the peck of a good song through your body like wind

and the vibration of your weight against the earth to keep it humming into life





Sutton Wilderness Park


The trees grin their welcome

as we slide along the path

they have made for our curious feet

begging us to tour their home

no tickets needed

so we pad across the dirt

and kiss eyes with bunnies

and the lucky cardinals

that dollop the trail’s edge

like musing paintbrushes


until we meet the water

where the ducks splash each other

in literal fowl play

and the turtles stack along a log

in a game of dominos

while the wind sings its presence

so we don’t forget to feel

with more than our eyes

as the sun reflecting off the water

hypnotizes and blinds us

with nature’s intoxicating wonder

and we forget the civilization

from which we came

and long to stay in this moment

in a world that was created for us

but ignorantly shunned for ease



How could we abandon such bliss?





Swim along the window

sill and exist.

It’s okay. I know you might

be afraid, but I’m okay

with you doing what

you know. Pity showers

my cheeks peach.


Sugar drop plops granite

counter tops and makes

your senses tingle

wild in instinct

to relish in our waste

insignificant, small



My mother’s hand would smash

you into another pixel

in our simulation, but I

don’t understand why your life

is a nuisance as long as what is

ours has been abandoned.

You breathe too.


Who are your kin,

new fellow in town?

And how much do you

have to say goodbye to when I

grab the hose on the sink and steal

all you were ever going to amount to

without even thinking?



Brontë Pearson is a science journalist and creative writer from Arkansas. Her essays, short stories, and poetry seek to expose the art of being human through natural discoveries of the body, environment, and mind. Her work has been published in numerous online and print publications and "best of" anthologies, including 805 Lit + Art Magazine, Eastern Iowa Review, Red Weather, Arkansas’s Best Emerging Poets, Door is a Jar Magazine, and others. Her e-portfolio can be found at


bottom of page