Space Invaders
It is only while in camp that one can really learn to study Nature in the
proper way. For the first time you live under the stars and realize what
an enormous expanse of almost endless space they cover

Scouting for Girls

We are all outdoorswomen tonight, a glassy violet
  whistle hanging down each of our shirts, starched culottes

on the verge of skirts. Deep within the arced tent
  windows draped and tarped like the opening hearts

of romaine we spurned at dinner, we tell each other Help my husband
  is bleeding! in sign language. The mother wants us to play

Asteroids, or People Machine, but there are secrets out there:
  someone has a globe-topped deodorant that smells of after-

the-rain, and it must be investigated. And here is Orion's belt,
  between the lichen-spreading clouds, but which stars

make up the rest of him? It seems you could trace the man
  out twenty different ways. One of the brothers wanders

the campsite dressed as Death, asking for a last wish—
  his thundering black gown sweeps leaves up with it.

Well, he asks. I'm waiting. The plastic scythe taps my arm,
  and I say I want what everyone wants: only to get older.

Sarah Crossland likes to write poems about dead people, holiness, roller coasters, and love. The recipient of the 2012 Boston Review Poetry Prize, she was invited to read at the Library of Congress in the spring of 2011, and her manuscript God Factory was a finalist in the 2012 Milkweed Editions Lindquist and Vennum Prize. In her spare time, she plays the harp and teaches at Oakhill Correctional Institute. Someday she hopes to keep bees. Visit her online at (

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761