Category: Poetry – Crystal Edition
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Milk spills on the floor, purple cup. My hands are that of a child’s, clumsy and small. And so it goes, click, clack—across the tile. My mom’s shrill voice, rising as my eyes well with tears. I think I cried. I don’t remember. Kaleidoscope vision, jumping rope. Gym class, and the sound of dozens of…
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I’ve always been told I was meant to be something, something greater than myself, greater than everyone. For so long I thought my potential had been wasted, that I was never going to be more than I am, that I was never going to be more than everyone. Seventeen long years and it finally happened,…
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I knew hunger beforeI knew pain my claws tear at the seamsmy teeth rip into tender,pre-packaged prey,bitter,like cigarette smoke I am a predatordumb,frozen,gaze dull like TV static and you are my keeper Raegan Blair is currently pursuing a bachelors in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing; she is also double majoring in game design.…
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I have a sinking feeling I’ve done it all in vain. A shrew digging pinpricks creating a hole dug to nowhere, she dies a martyr, she was going to die all along. A hyena feeds on stolen laughter and gnaws on bitter joy, a predatory prowess dripping from her simper, she is still insatiable. A…
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That day you revealed your true intentions; I saw the sun. You saw the sun years ago and tried to hide in its shadows. Yet You Failed. You spent so long thinking you were safe in its shadow that you never realized you were being burned, That the sun saw you. You can lie to…
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Her mother had diedso she inherited the house.She was a nice lady,energetic and bright.The daughter was,not the mother.She liked that we stayed together as a group,my older sister and me watching the younger three.She said we could play in her backyard any time wewanted.She was often not there,she had her own house and her own…
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I. EMERGENCE I still can’t sleep when it rains.Something about the way water hits the roofmakes me think of your body hitting water. The sound your skull must have madecracking against limestone before the quarryswallowed what was left. The summer we were seventeenI used to watch you standing at the quarry edge.Your jean cuffs rolled,…
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I won’t describe how we found youseven days too late.Just one soul in an afterlife queuereduced to political bait. I swear, your slow voiceis supertemporal,as you say, “It’s Your Choice”.Field autopsy—post-mortal. Now, I would complement you—if you had a name.You rot to no one’s boo-hoo,a soul gone tame. Perhaps you laughed nicely?Or cared for your…
Arrow Rock Literary Journal 