On The Eighth Day By Gracie Fuhrman

On The Eighth Day

Open the book and let
it speak those

this city,
a river ebbing
into pools
of blue.

Light those Marlboro’s; just
know you won’t
afford them in the morning-

this city,
a pause.

A light that fades,
like a Winehouse lyric-

we join the club but ain’t famous
enough to get in.

this city,
a break in words,


this city,
a pulse.

This asphalt sighs
itself back
into my mouth-

makes room for the influx
sewer water-

this city,

all those catacombs, (where else can we bury
those empty shells?)
We exhume those
but that blood
don’t wash

We don’t put rat traps
in the subway
no more.

We let them live among us.

Buildings baptized in
rainwater, in
backslide torrents of snow.

this city,

black with the smoke

of the living.

By Gracie Fuhrman


Gracie Fuhrman is a high school student from Arkansas. She is a co-founder of Arkansas Youth Mag and strives to find her place among the literary world while helping other aspiring poets do the same.

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