Thrush Poetry Journal
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Cat Richardson

Oyster scrap

Thin and lurid on the tongue.

Ragged leafscuttle of gray November―

the empty street waits. Shutterclack. Brine

and lurid on the tongue with lemon. Beardburn

and Flemish painters. Sun below skyline, sun

bellows brackish. Salt and pepper on lips

and butter. And butter. Lush slip

of fingers lurid on the tongue.




Lost Morning

There’s something about your face today―

cold embers, ash troubled by the breeze.

When I tried to warm you, you said no,

it was time to listen to your own echoes,

and you left to take a walk.


The more I think of you, the more this train

smells like horses, the slower it creeps along

dragging your absence.  What if I’m a blink.

What if you never come back. The morning

rests on my forehead, doesn’t draw out

this fever.




Cat Richardson
’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, elimae, Lungfull! Magazine, and The Golden Key. Her prose has appeared in Pleiades, and Poets & Writers. She is an editor at Phantom Limb Press and managing editor of Bodega (www.bodegamag.com)




Return to March 2013 Edition