Tag: published
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America; America
I keep having this dream where the white man isn’t angry the black man entered the white house. When I wake up, the white man has stolen everything. I tell my neighbors but they don’t believe me because he’s a white man wearing a red hat and says he owns a bible. They tell me…
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Prayer
for Rachel Woodard Grey as the in-between of everythingnever meant to be understood—your eyes had a wayof taking the weight of the dayfrom my shoulders; when they could not, I found in themsuch forgiveness for my defeat. Heartfully, I always listenedwhen your wisdom asked for my attention— our words, sparse enough,were generally tradedwith playful…
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The Language We Bury Them In
for Hannah Hamilton You wrote of comfort, crawfish boils and Port Vincent – for your father and the South and all of the things I’ve ever loved or never knew about. I read more and I learned you: your voice, flat on a paper, but heaving from aches, jerking from anticipation, and then rising with…
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I’d Be Lying
if I said I wasn’t nervous. My sister, concerned: I’m afraid Christians may hurt my son. I’ve been up all night trying to decide if we should go. When I say Christian, I don’t mean Christian; I mean those who say amen when it isn’t right. Is it more important to be seen, to show…
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Exit Strategy
Three months is my average; rarely do I last any longer playing the role of lover. I’ve dared myself to resist the urge to leave, but it goes against my truths. When lust-minded hands turn to watchful eyes, I try to decide if it’s worth it to be wanted for more than late hours. Lovers begin…
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This House
The screen door swings open. She jumps– off her guard; on edge all evening. This house has no ghosts. Husband’s home. She eyes him coldly, wondering: how much he’ll haunt her. Originally published at Rust + Moth – Spring 2016
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Holiday
The old dog sits close; thunderstorms and nostalgia have us held up in the back of the house— each seeking shelter from our own fears. Originally published at Gnarled Oak – Issue 5; November 6, 2015
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Leaning into Autumn
The cool mornings linger in the hollows, where the land dips and divides, waiting for the day to arrive— the South cannot shake the humid breath of sunlight. Originally published at Plum Tree Tavern – October 2015
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Veatrice
I could drink the thunder in some evenings, let the roaring of it all put a rumble in my chest— holler out, and be heard. Yet I lack the grace that should be winding through my veins by way of my great-grandmother: a woman who was not once, but twice, slapped down by strikes of…
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Passing
Grief wrapped around me last night, reminding me of the hardest ache I’ve learned to live with. I curled into the bend of the couch, recalling silly things and finding solace in the way the night moves. Loss has lent itself to our family in the same season it visited last; the evening makes the…
Rachel Nix 