Carrying a wicker basket full of kudzu and buttercups, molten drops of sun and forest, I trudge through pavement, when a sound seizes my ears like honeycomb- sapped fruit flies.
Croaking melodies into air.
Wings like wet paper soaked in sun-baked leaves, void eyes staring up at me blankly. Twig legs splayed like baby doe, awaiting mother.
So paltry, I could cup my hands around it like a teapot. So sanguine, I almost spot a tiny golden heart, twinkling through feathers. Those saucer eyes. Those birchwood limbs. I will wait, sitting on the cracked asphalt, ears attentive.
But, silver clouds exhale, trees churning in their grasp. A storm rolling, oozing grey into soft purple. I must make my way back home.
My ears take one, final look. Croaking requiems into air.
Ode to Internalized Paint
Distempered the carcass among these walls-- emulsed to papered coats of pink and teal, eggshell relics, encrusted colors that I painted over. Between those sheets is another dead notion.
This layer is pink, antediluvian (before the flood) I’m wearing paisley dresses to school, a bow-gibbous, bejeweled, inhaling some sweetmeats on monkey bars. And it reminds me of bliss.
The second skin was teal. It came in siroccos of itchy jeans and sinew curtains choking barbie- girl heads. Blues smothers the fire of pink girls.
An eidolon brush eats at my hand now. Eggshelled shame. I’m tittering on them. My walls, they whisper, accusatory: Internalized paint.
Rosalie McCracken is a poet from Clemson, South Carolina. Outside of writing, you will find her reading, drawing, rock-hunting in local rivers, and playing Dungeons and Dragons with friends.