Cold Company
by Natasha Bredle
You breathe on my lips and I smell the smoke
of long forgotten campfires, flames billowing
across matted grasses ever closer to forest seams.
Step back and I will douse you
in diamond-clear water—fallen fragment of a fractured sky,
chorus of shattering glass against your skin,
whispers of angels as fluid becomes steam—
a metamorphosis
which reminds me of vernal baptism,
when I declared I would no longer wallow in sin
before my clean hands could even fathom Eden’s woe.
How the Earth looked so fine and spherical then,
not defined by the havens and hollows
which weathered the architecture of its bones.
Now my gaze limps upon your skin,
a delicate plane tainted with scars. I trace
the pale tissue and my finger comes away wet
not with blood, but the ghosts of tears.
Towels may soak up condensation
but these watermarks remain,
faded wrinkles where you wept, unabridged pain
of ages spent in the darkness, a shadow, an unknown.
So I tilt your chin up and hail the wells of your exhausted eyes,
rest, I plead, there are safe places even for the nameless, the lost
and you will tame these fires that have raged on for too long
and they will prove to warm instead of scald
your weary hands, I plead,
let go.
Waves
by Natasha Bredle
dear mother, perhaps the time has come for me to leave again,
although we walk this road together and i relish
the warmth of your quilted hand, you bring to mind
the ecclesiastic verse that rings notes of departure and rebirth.
we’ve surfed days of sorrow and bliss like photons in a wave,
varied lengths of light sifting through the membranes of our skin
like those ancient gold seekers who sought treasure from dust,
in their dreams embodying the lives of others, higher, brighter,
because where they were was never enough,
and we have mirrored them for so long. look around:
our race has conquered the depths of the sea and challenged the stars,
yet we balance on the same precipice as our primitive ancestors,
the yearn, the ache for what we aren’t.
and oh mother, this disease has shaken me to the core
yet as i suffer, you shoulder my burden and bottle my tears,
saying daughter, these will surely fill an ocean
and as it grows i am building a ship, and when the day
comes to sail, the rushing wind will taste like honey,
the stars will glow and light my way and the waves
will frolic and celebrate my sojourn as i depart.
dear mother, you must know your hand is not some physical thing
to let go of. it is this all-encompassing color that has given me the brush.
About the Author
Natasha Bredle is a young (but fortunately not starving) artist based in Ohio. She writes about what she thinks about, which is really too much for her poor brain. You can find her work in Aster Lit, The Aurora Journal, and Second Chance Lit, to name a few.