Jar of soil
My grandpa keeps a jar
on the windowsill, its glass
clouded, like the sky before rain—
inside, the soil of our old orchard, scooped
and shouldered across the hills the day
we left. He says this is the earth
of oranges, of olives that knew the sun's
first light, and roots that ran deeper
than the hatred of men who trampled
blossoms into battlefields. His voice is low,
like a prayer, as he tilts the jar, letting
the earth shift—a slow, stealthy
landslide. Each night I press my palm
to the cool glass, feeling the weight
of a world that once was ours. I lean
my ear against the lid, listening
for what I once knew—the rain, my sister
chasing me through the fields, the hands
that planted, knowing this soil as my grandpa
did. But here, our ground is borrowed.
A patch of gravel, dry as the moon,
where we line up for water. Still,
grandpa says, one day we will return,
we will press our feet into that soil
again, and it will hold us. I dream
of our orchard, its branches heavy
with fruit—I wake to rusted fences,
to my sister brushing dust
from her dress.
on the windowsill, its glass
clouded, like the sky before rain—
inside, the soil of our old orchard, scooped
and shouldered across the hills the day
we left. He says this is the earth
of oranges, of olives that knew the sun's
first light, and roots that ran deeper
than the hatred of men who trampled
blossoms into battlefields. His voice is low,
like a prayer, as he tilts the jar, letting
the earth shift—a slow, stealthy
landslide. Each night I press my palm
to the cool glass, feeling the weight
of a world that once was ours. I lean
my ear against the lid, listening
for what I once knew—the rain, my sister
chasing me through the fields, the hands
that planted, knowing this soil as my grandpa
did. But here, our ground is borrowed.
A patch of gravel, dry as the moon,
where we line up for water. Still,
grandpa says, one day we will return,
we will press our feet into that soil
again, and it will hold us. I dream
of our orchard, its branches heavy
with fruit—I wake to rusted fences,
to my sister brushing dust
from her dress.
Spring 2026
J.L. Chen is a Chinese Canadian poet/writer based in Vancouver. Her work appears in Grain, Literary Review of Canada, Mantis (Stanford), PRISM, Tupelo Quarterly, West Trade Review, Queen's Quarterly, and elsewhere. She was long listed for the 2025 CBC Poetry Prize, shortlisted for the Pacific Spirit Poetry Prize, and a Finalist for the 2025 Robert and Adele Schiff Award by The Cincinnati Review. Chen holds an MFA from University of King's College. Find her on Instagram @jlchenwrites.
Art: Pamela Hobart Carter
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper