Two Poems

by Natalie Crick

 

Spider

 

The whisper

Wicks from her lips.

A soothing salve.

 

She bends, twists,

Feet touching the walls

In eight different places.

 

Her laurels always rove.

Search.

Hold.

 

Gagging the dawn chorus

Until

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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