heres’s a secret: where I come from,
all the fairytales begin with
instead, and my neck has earned
its permanent ache from looking back
even though there is no one
left to save. in this life the window
shares its own desolation and grief
is stored in miniature paper cups.
some days I miss my old transformations,
the kind that turned braid spine
and hooves heartbeat. others,
I hate their necessity. I want
to be wantless, to give up my arms
without a second thought. like I could
keep my pulse from slowing. the first
time you came over, you wore a
red dress, white socks, white shoes.
like a valentine.
I think I love you, you said, and
my palms began filling with water.
do you see them run, mane rippling
under wind, muscle throbbing under flank?
I swear, we’ll be home by morning.
Claire Pinkston is a seventeen-year-old biracial Black poet and writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has previously been recognized at the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and is forthcoming in Lumiere Review, the B’K, and The Hellebore, among others. She is growing with her poetry.