Poetry by Cat Dixon

               Paul Wordingham CC



​
Clouds


1.

The clouds overhead flank 
a spine that spirals across the blue.
Is that your x-ray displayed 
to signify the ultimate sacrifice? 


2.

The splintered half-lines are branches 
of my moist bronchial tree
swelling with the setting sun,
bursting with yellow birds in flight. 


3.

The bones belong to the fish
that swims parallel to the halo 
crowning your head, to the long curl
of your calf as you glide to the right. 


4.

Adam’s ribs are here to rank. See, 
I was formed from man—crafted 
from a roll of dice—rushing to bone, 
returning to dust, hanging by the string of a kite.

​

Cat Dixon is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and The Book of Levinson and Our End Has Brought the Spring (Finishing Line Press, 2017, 2015), and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet's Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in Parentheses Journal, Lowecroft Chronicle, and SWWIM.  

---