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.
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, Ink In Thirds, The Penwood Review, The Chiron Review and Rust and Moth. 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.
Foxglove Journal 