Natalie Crick

 

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.

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