Poetry By Keira Armstrong

       Malte CC



before dark

the edge of the eagle’s bones, in the ribs of the hills, the tip and drop of a hat–
                you are outside a house that is outside your father’s place that is
outside the inside of elbows that you crawl from -the
                cement is thick with howls, sounding out names of boys
you can’t help but know-
                ones like you are faroff, waiting for the sun to
                touch the surface of their sweat-
before dark, the radio is on 
                and the moon is pouring a gallon of water on the pink fired sky–
the bird is crashing and sound of jazz
                 is coming from throat of a man 
who eloped with broken bones inside his palm and dreams are
                 kept behind the lock of a motel door-
where the words, ‘open up’ don’t mean tell me your name
                 so walk into this body
                 and see how the stars spell out ‘run’
                 so you do 
                 so you run down the mud road
with yellow butterflies crushed beneath your feet
-and the storm is coming from you, 
                 the taste of august stuck at an angle down your throat,
bringing down the sour taste of what happens when you leave a boy and life alone
before dark, 
                 your eyes are the color of coming home and 
not knowing which part of his body you came form

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i can’t see my breath

in the morning i lie / down into my father’s hands / which are curled / around a ciada / so he can
feel / something that / did not touch / the line my mouth draws / down the road / 

              and i don’t care / that he didn’t / tell you / that the shoulder we cried on / was mine after /
the surgery i / got to be more like him / 

                               this what i am / hands weaving the bluest / nights back into dusk / until my ribs
                crack / at the seams of time / so that i am / not more than / enough /

                                              hello father / did i tell you / how i slept / in the pockets / of men and fear /
                               unravel it / take me into / your mouth / and mine / since you made / this mess

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Keira Armstrong, a young author and poet, is the founder of Verum Literary Press and a staff contributor at Cloudy Magazine. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Defunkt Magazine, Healthline Zine, Eggplant Tears, Sage Cigarettes, as well as local New Orleans magazines. You can find them @keira_armst1 on Instagram and Twitter.