by L.J. McCray

 

I want to die at sunrise:
opalescent orb bursting
through a night sky sticky

as fly-paper—
darkness won’t catch me.
I only know how to begin.

As the sun reddens,
extracting periwinkle
from each crease of night’s

folded cloak,
and as the birds riot,
their up-turned chirping

like a giant sipping the last
drops from a long straw,
I will finally converge

into a morning person.
All of my aching
will harmonize to the rupturous

crashes of daybreak,
and in that split between evening
and dawn,

I, too, will crack open
and spill into the ragged mouth
of the universe.

 

Hurts you, doesn’t it?
Inside that welt, a story tells itself.

Stories repeat if we let them.
Stories repeat. If we let them.

If you are cup-shaped you’ll want to avoid
rainfall. Or learn to flip on your head.

Hungry heart—it gallops to your mouth
at even the slightest whiff of caring.

Hurts you, doesn’t it? Every last thing.
Those endings. Each page, a paper cut.

Godx is nearer than you can imagine.
Godx is never close enough.

When you breathe onto glass
when you paint yourself into the air—

Disappearance is natural.
It’s only a movement to worlds you can’t see.


L.J. MCCRAY live in North Carolina. Her work has been published in Thing EZine. She has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from Hollins University, as well as a master’s in Divinity from Yale Divinity School.


Featured Photo: “Sunrise” by Nao Kitano