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[The truth, which is yours, is not free]

By Natasha Bredle

Which is only because you are not free.

The truth gnaws away at restraints.

The truth gathers up and collects.

It stands, unmoved, in the fire. Or it is the fire,

loving life. Preserving the bush, wrenching

the water two ways, wonders declaring

that this is glory: to belong to him. Unto ages.

The truth does not masquerade,

though it will be shunned, mocked

in staggering fury. The truth will stand, still,

and await your eyes. You will see one

of two things. You will see a temple,

bruised, pillars crumbling.

You will ask where the master went,

and they will say he is gone, sealed away

in gold chests like age-old curses.

Or, you will see

folded cloth in the wake of what seems stolen.

You will have many questions

for the gardener, but with a familiar voice,

he will only ask why you are weeping.


Natasha Bredle is a young writer based in Ohio. Her work has been featured in publications such as Words and Whispers, Heat of Flesh Literary, and The Clay Jar Review. She has received accolades from the Bennington College Young Writers Awards as well the Adroit Prizes. In addition to poetry and short fiction, she has a passion for longer works and is currently drafting a young adult novel.


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