You will open, like the rose blossom, bitter, but still necessary: a slow mineral stream so like night, so dark. This is to give such nourishment, as if from soil, to wake poor, essential fiends such as I, and your very own, almost to breathing.
A Moon, Shattered
We cried, and we clawed at the sky, but the ocean drew fast on. No longer content in their drawing and rushing away, it swallowed every shard of light, and nothing and no one persisted, not so much as a sigh, or bedtime prayer.
Beloved of Salamanders
I'm never leaving them in their calm nest, and cloud-ring of golden eyes. We all belong together. You can fade, or self-bury, in mud, or snow, and we will reach from them both to touch spring fingers, cool and gray in satisfaction.
The Tribe: A Dream
Seven black kittens dropped from the warm night space of their great mother, mewling in a crescent of waxing, waning. Grasping was the power of their claws in which no heart could win, only perish in the bright slash of stars.
Eyes in Springtime
How well you love in green, if only moss that never fades among brookstones and felled trees. The water rise to pearls of ice opening like notes from schoolgirls, and reading thus: "I was betrayed." "I will surface, in the hunger of worms, awaking in your sight."
Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer based in Lowell, Mass. In addition to previously appearing in The Chamber Magazine, her writing has appeared in The Cafe Review, The Horror Zine, Dark Moon Digest, and many more. She is author of five poetry books and a short fiction collection, The Plague Confessor. She welcomes visits to megsmithwriter.com.
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