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  • Bekah Black


A poem by Bekah Black.

I perch on the edge of the cold metal chair

Lean from beneath the awning

And learn by seeing.

The clouds cluster thickly, pink clots

Whisked from air, sunned cream frothing

Even while gray breath frosts at the horizon.

As the rims of that incoming gray

Near me, they drain to white

Even as black pools bubble up in the center,

A stain in an old rag,

Smoke puckering to a bruise.

Its cold exhale touches first, knotting my hair

And throttling the wind chimes, but still they flutter

Patiently, gently, like the birds

Singing, cheery despite the

Gnashing indigo puffs

That are the imminent future.

One thing I’ve learned.

Clouds move without moving

Like children growing up.

When you glance away and back their eyes have changed.

They’ve seen things you haven’t seen.

Their edges have wisped to thread,

Their throats gaping white to swallow the incoming world.

Bekah Black grew up in Pittsburgh, as a child writing novels about gem princesses and as a teen writing angsty poems about ribcages. Now, a college graduate and fledgling adult, her essays, stories, and poems inevitably circle around bodies and body imagery, nosing about in the sacred mystery of what it means to have one. Her work has previously appeared in publications such as Levee Magazine, NCHC’s Journal of Undergraduate Research and Creative Activity, and The Bookends Review.

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