The End of Summer is Not the End of the Season
The roses have been sewn shut; the curtains tricked into parting;
I return to my apartment a visitor. You said we were closed
for the season, our first swim the last swim of the summer.
The peaches melting on my counter know better than to rely
on preservation. I rearrange my furniture so it can hold me.
Each night tears the hem of my skirt, revealing a wishbone
between my legs that always breaks in your favor.
Tonight my shadow bends into an outline of two branches
intersecting in a bedroom. Tomorrow, I’ll pull all the laughter
from my pockets, sew it into a season where the phone rings
often and not every passing black truck is yours.
Prelude to Divided Landscapes
In a gas station bathroom
halfway to Ohio, a penny falls
heads up. This isn’t a poem
about luck, but rain pausing
under bridges; of the summer
my hands become capable wings.
You persist like the moon in daylight,
my passenger, my window
left open. Softer still are the months
pressed behind us: dusty palm prints
on car hoods, conversations between
blades of grass, highway stretching
in motion. The beginning of August
is still an ending, where the world
grows too large and distance
quickly husks. With nothing left
to hold I dress as the wind.
Rachel Cruea is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at the University of Colorado- Boulder. She is originally from Ohio, where she received her BA in creative writing and literature from Ohio Northern University. Along with working on TIMBER journal. she has had her poems previously published in editions of The Pinch, The Adroit Journal, Birds Piled Loosely, and elsewhere.