Tag Archives: Natalie Easton

I keep dreaming of the meadow fox

Seven miles down the dirt road of your mind and cancer was the diagnosis. Not lilacs, not your sweet chemical powder smell. I close my eyes; I’m six. I don’t remember being six but I feel somewhere wholly brought into … Continue reading

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The geese fly south to Connecticut

You tell me the story every day; love without fruition. Begging necks lined up and broken. The longing – it could be some other land; Canada, maybe, France: the language is nearly the same; the dialect, maybe, varies. But it’s … Continue reading

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The Reflex

Teeth do not cut, do no harm as one of your dull gazes cast in a moment, afterthought, at me as though some assessment was being made by the shadow of my word. Your barest touch makes detail haunted. Faultless, … Continue reading

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Crocus

The rainy crocuses and the dim branches drop glass down in their nascent hollows; clefts like voices in my kitchen. Yours I have been arranging myself in according to devices of remembering what you have touched. I am unsure, however, … Continue reading

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