The Oldest Boy
Part of me died here
So another could go on.
I want to know what it is
I have left,
Like draining blood from a limb.
Rainy days with their dark smell,
The black mountains falling away.
Winter bullies me.
My lips are a feast of blue.
I lock the door to keep it out,
Every curtain drawn.
His hands are small as coins.
My gaze lingered a little too long
On the oldest boy.
His body became a knot in my throat.
He smiled at me.
I know I’m not supposed to smile back.
My teeth sat in my mouth like gold.
All that had been severed shone.
I watch from the lane
The one lit room
Slowly going dark.
By Natalie Crick
Natalie Crick, from the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds and The Penwood Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.