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.
I hate
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 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

Biography:

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.