a cleaving
Brittny Crowell
today i make my tea
with the vanilla soy milk you left
it clouds the cup
like the birth of a star
embraced in porcelain,
like the dissipating
breath a drop of blood
makes in clear water
when you come to me
you leave things—
a tapestry of well meaning
stains in the shape
of recognizable things
woman who left her blood
in my bed as a goodbye
like a note in a rocking chair
take yourself with you—
leave no trails like a slug
i carry the scent of you
on my hands for days
like the frame of a dying
cherry tree or arthritic claw
struggling to make a fist
to pound your healthy skeletons
to ash and powder
you are the word caught sideways
in the tender pink of my throat—
a baby plunked in the neighbor’s
drinking well like a coin—
my breast weeping milk as i walk away
Brittny Ray Crowell is a native of Texarkana, TX. She received a BA in English from Spelman College followed by an MA in English from Texas A&M-Texarkana. Her work focuses on the hidden mythologies, dreams, traumas, and sensualities of the black contemporary South. She recently received the Inprint Donald Barthelme Prize in Poetry and her work has been published in the anthology Black Lives Have Always Mattered: A Collection of Essays, Poems, and Personal Narratives. Her current poetry manuscript, Haint, explores the black oikos in the wake of trauma. She is currently pursuing a doctorate in Creative Writing and Literature at the University of Houston.