Fruit By Candlelight
The candle snuffed out, leaving
A trail of cursive smoke.
She probed the apple
Turned to bruise,
Juice bleeding into skin,
Soft as a small skull,
Pressed her nail into the pear
Leaving a dirty moon
In the meat of the fruit.
It receded from touch,
Like a Woman
Who has been hit before.
Her fingers drip
Wax.
The corpse candles reveal
Their death walks.
Plums at Night
The night is plum-dark.
Horses hang in the depths of sleep,
Haunches gleaming blue-black as
Dripping dusky fruit,
Skin enticing touch,
Misted by the press of my thumb.
I want to bite right down
To the hard grooved core,
Flesh dense as
Blood in lungs,
Pulse of the heart
Throbbing to be licked,
Thirst and murmur and desire
Rolling the tongue as the
Horse’s eyes
Turn to their whites in
Fright.
Wide and open as a cage
In the belly of the night,
Asking: ‘Do I dare?’
©Natalie Crick
Natalie Crick, from Newcastle in the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. She graduated from Newcastle University with a degree in English Literature and plans to pursue an MA at Newcastle this year. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds and The Penwood Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’ was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
The Loch Raven Review 