WAKERachel M. Croce Bernard is not the name of a man, but a place where winter eyes cast shore to shore and land kissed upon seagrass-laden rocky salt-marshand feast upon simplicity where loneliness mates with dreary coastline I wed myself to mean unsailed sailor bent upon cracked compassarrows dance between glass and brass loose bootstraps lift weighty limbsin searchto hideContinue reading “WAKE”
Tag Archives: poetry
He’s No Politic I’m No Saint; How We Often Step Into Meaning
Wrapped twice around a frail neck is the lace from my mother’s slipslipping further from where she ought to gogoing forward in the most domestic way Pale in a pretty green dresswaves sway back and forth around me mashing and folding bending and molding to the perfect dirtydirt dinner taste of pebblesdark and dirtdirty fingernails peeling like the applesweContinue reading “He’s No Politic I’m No Saint; How We Often Step Into Meaning”
If I Could
If I couldI would sit quietly outside a café and finish the last few chapters of my book. Distraction would come only when birds land on the ground in search of crumbs or when I feel the sun’s heat pressed firmly against my right side. If I couldI would look down at the phone aContinue reading “If I Could”
I Am Not Your Comfort Woman
As cold metal scrapes its way through bubbling saliva and wraps around my tongueI think to myself I will do this because I love him Thick fingers curl themselves and firmly swathe leather strapsThey tell me move to the left Continue reading “I Am Not Your Comfort Woman”
Drip on Me
These branches breathe a heavy sigh“Dripping,” as he put itThey drip the curlingCrack the coughing at each sorrowful Stone-cold inGoodnight skyUnknowing friend keep meCompany keep me Here is where home is builtA fire glowing Growing Going Flames dance to be unseen Just before you stack With sturdy dirty fingersStack the dryness of dead branch treeDryContinue reading “Drip on Me”
Bowed
I will bend the thickness of my neckIn effort to reach the bowIn hopes of being heard In want of being
Both/And
Where softening becomesaged And firms it’s way Where brightening becomes worn And tatters to shade Every now and again I land in between both/and
The Farmer and the Fruit
PART I: The Farmer Babushka referred to our farm as “Dom Wschodzącej Śliwki” which translates to “House of the Rising Plum.” I smile at this as I step out of our cottage and into a pastel-colored dawn. My fluttering eyelashes fan damp mist in a soft breeze. Dull shades hover past a fog, above vibrantContinue reading “The Farmer and the Fruit”
Type Cases and Avoidant Attachment
This piece was inspired by the theory of attachment. More specifically, avoidant attachment styles. People who are avoidant may find themselves regretting a commitment once they start to feel the other person getting too close. They look for reasons to avoid committing by fantasizing about an ex once they are in a new relationship orContinue reading “Type Cases and Avoidant Attachment”
The Word Mill 