Cover Image: Faith NK
COMING OUT TO MY MOM IN MY 2014 FORD ESCAPE
i’ll never forget
[redacted]
even when i never said that
shifting tectonic plates open a pit in my stomach
for this teacup car to tumble through: or
some other heaven cloaked cruelty—one where
unconditional is a little more convincing.
the porcelain cuts my skin. swirling to
a blood anklet pooling in the cradle of a
shoe. sun-bleached beige up-holstery stains dark.
as the car fractures, i look up and find her still
there, bleeding, too. rivulets running pink as they
meet salt. i laugh. my stomach hurts. she says
something about god and .
the seatbelts keep us in place, still falling. i catch
the rear-view mirror, in the reflection, i expect
myself, but, instead, her image. turning this way
and that, the reflection doesn’t change. i hold it up
next to her. for the first time, i don’t feel car sick.
they both blink back.
after the fall, i struggle to find metaphor. settle
on apples and oranges, tech tonic plates, teacups,
religion, breakable things. i’ll cover the fissure.
wait for mending.
Crystal Murr is a poet and owl enthusiast from Merritt Island, Florida. She is currently an MFA candidate at Florida Atlantic University studying poetry. She is the poetry editor for the Swamp Ape Review. Her work has appeared in the Blue Lake Review, Divot: A Journal of Poetry, The Albion Review, and Collision Literary Magazine, among others. She shares her poetic happenings on Twitter @CrystalMurr4.
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