Natalie Crick

This House

Fog rolls in on the red mountain. 
A husk. It is blood Winter. 

We sell ourselves, ounce by ounce
To the moon.

The sky has swallowed it’s full and 
Grows colder, darker. 

Years peel back like rind.
My children are as old as scars.

There is no air in this
Dead bird of a bedroom. 

Panic spreads, wildfire.
I wish myself a ghost town,

Wish myself the cool hush of night,
A blanket of dusk,

Listening to illness move 
Beneath the floorboards,
Moths to red clouds,
Clogging my throat like cinnamon.

Never trust the spirit. 
It escapes as steam in dreams.

More light. Fog is rising. 
Let us go in. 


——

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

——

Advertisements