Three poems – Natalie Crick

Natalie Crick

This House

Fog rolls in on the red mountain.
A husk. It is blood Winter.

We sell ourselves, ounce by ounce
To the moon.

The sky has swallowed it’s full and
Grows colder, darker.

Years peel back like rind.
My children are as old as scars.

There is no air in this
Dead bird of a bedroom.

Panic spreads, wildfire.
I wish myself a ghost town,

Wish myself the cool hush of night,
A blanket of dusk,

Listening to illness move
Beneath the floorboards,

Moths to red clouds,
Clogging my throat like cinnamon.

Never trust the spirit.
It escapes as steam in dreams.

More light. Fog is rising.
Let us go in.


Autumnal Gems

Branches shudder in growth.
Roots twist and suck.

The ground dapples.
Shoots rise:

Soft, lush,

A pulsing thing
Exposed to wind,

Exhaled into open sky,
Forgotten, ghosted.

Russet leaves catch the light
Open mouthed as infants

High on sugar,
Passing out,

Their glutinous gems
A promiscuous showering of treats.



Night is an open mouth.
Her touch minnows the water,

Whispers leaves as if
Through lace to some

Forbidden ear,
Combs my hair with glassy fingers,

A memory of her breath
Heard beneath the door,

The warmth apparent
That haunts her absent lungs.

Ghosts are there to see by.
You remember.

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