Two Poems

by Natalie Crick




The whisper

Wicks from her lips.

A soothing salve.


She bends, twists,

Feet touching the walls

In eight different places.


Her laurels always rove.




Gagging the dawn chorus


The hunger moon thins.


Dissecting a house fly,

She commits

Murder on the brightest window,


At first frost

Opens the door

Without a guest to feast.


Things of Grace


Blue night is

An absent shade now,

A broken memory of sky,


Shadows moss-damp and

Pearled with honey.

There are corpses floating in the trees;


Things of grace,

Swimming over us in flight,

Fluent beings on bone-white wing.


They call to me


When the sky goes dark,

When the clouds are a wish

But no rain pours,


When the moon rolls past and

My eyes catch fire.

They curl over pools


To drink,

Pale-eyed, beautiful,

Something half-remembered.


Natalie Crick, from the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Rust and Moth, The Chiron Review, Ink in Thirds, Interpreters House and The Penwood Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. 

Image credit: Greenstone Girl via Flickr, All Creative Commons. Image is of a spider web spun between thick brown branches of a tree.

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