Caroline Rayner



just after a storm, lingering vibrations in the air
accumulate on my skin
as i drift under a magnolia tree,
reflecting upon the zodiac,
dreaming i am no longer wingless.


i atone for a history of self-destruction
by stringing a necklace of sequins
and rose petals to match a new dress.
yet, when possessed by venus in virgo,
i resume the shape of my carapace.


you are smoking on a screened porch,
aching for the freedom of a drifter
while lavender grows inside the shell of a piano
left to atrophy in the backyard. i wonder,
can you still play by memory?


i recall fall in the city,
slipping into warm clothes,
unlearning romanticism.
i recall our last afternoon, spent hiding,
carefully enjoying the sweetness of split plums.


there is an old house deep in the mountains
where we stash archival visions––
perhaps too idealist, perhaps too escapist––
but we no longer pine for anything supernatural,
so we breathe.

Caroline Rayner would like to zoom around the forest as a hummingbird with wings that sparkle and reflect crazy patterns along all the trees. Her feathers would change color seasonally: lilac in winter, peach in spring, jade in summer, cerulean in fall. Find her on Twitter & Tumblr.