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.

 

 

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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.