Pretty Blood

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. 

---

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine.