At dawn, fire layers the horizon,
purpling the sky like fresh eye shadow
around fragile blue skin.
The crunching of leaves beneath feet
recreate the sound of cracking
rib bones, the breaking of Adam’s pact
to God. The wind stings one cheek
and then the other like the burn of being knocked
down and getting back up again
only to fall once more. The cold of the cement
feels like linoleum of a kitchen
floor against a warm, battered body, cooling
and warming to one another.
The sun continues to burst into the morning,
filling the sky like a bag
that is being packed until it’s had enough.
Chase Troxell is an emerging writer who earned his Bachelor of Arts in English from the University of Findlay, where he also worked on Slippery Elm, a national literary magazine. He has been published in The Mochilla Review and has two poems published in Sheila-Na-Gig Online. He lives in Findlay, Ohio with his wife Marie and daughters Leona and Felicity.