Natalie Crick





The whisper

Wicks from her lips.

A soothing salve.


She bends, twists,

Feet touching the walls

In eight different places.


Her laurels always rove.




Gagging the dawn chorus


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.





Trees appear as brides,

Their snow dance wounding

The cosmos.

I am numb to you.

No one sees the snowdrops budding,

A bright field of knives.

If I turn away, they grow

In lines of white flame and,

As darkness falls,

A kingdom of black blossoms

Deep as a moaning mouth.


Natalie Crick, from the UK, has work published in a range of journals and magazines including Rust+Moth, The Chiron Review, Ink in Thirds, Interpreters House and The Penwood ReviewThis year her poem “Sunday School” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year.

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