A New Set of Teeth is Nothing to Sing About

In a house built from applause I belong to no one,
not even the mirrors. You are a sun's rotation away,
a hinge-less love, an excuse to wake beneath a new ceiling.
Without a word for innocence, I restring a necklace
that clatters along the floor like teeth;
I have forgotten the sound of your voice.
Day by day there are fewer sunflowers,
a town full of men who think they know me,
yet I am a piano in a room without hands.
What am I do with all this leftover love?
High-curtained window singing to the sparrow,
glass panes spilling light like floodwater on
my empty floors: making strangers of everyone I meet.
At the end of a long hallway I find the blueness
in my blood-winter arrives carrying your absence

Rachel Cruea is a native of Findlay, Ohio and a student at Ohio Northern University studying Creative Writing and Literature. Along with serving as the editor-in-chief for Polaris literary magazine, she has had her poems previously published in editions of Prairie Margins, Sun & Sandstone, The Vehicle, among a few others, as well as in forthcoming issues of Bird's Thumb and The Pinch. (rlcruea@gmail.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761