Since you asked, I’m answering with alien
abduction stories, period underpants,
midday séances under a tree, hoarding
those bathroom towels with the fancy
stitching, a few cans of cheese. My dad
is busy making bricks at his factory job
that won’t provide AC—overripe government
conspiracy. If I had the extra cabinet space,
I’d fill it with perishable strawberry cake.
If my Mom’s god were the right god,
I’d crunch my sleepy little soul into
the pew. I’m looking for a hand to
hold, but I’m done asking. My dad
tells me about dreams, about visions,
there is absolutely no distinction.
He’s seen himself atop a white horse
on the promised day, mirroring the prince
of heaven. I rode on top a white horse once,
saddle-less and feigning scared. My heels
rested on its soft skin until it bucked me
skyward. When I hit the ground, there was
no bloody god mirroring me. Just some piles
of shit and a kid running for it.
Crystal Cox is an MFA candidate at the University of Idaho writing about twinhood, alikeness, generational trauma, and rurality, among other things. Her work has appeared in The Shore, Nimrod, Kissing Dynamite, The Bookends Review, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets University Prize and a 2023 Centrum Fellowship. She calls Mid-Missouri home.
Artwork: “Lady Silence” by Anna Maeve