Christy's short work has appeared in Amarillo Bay, Phantom Kangaroo, Melusine, Dark Sky Magazine, Word Riot, Girls with Insurance, Six Sentences, Raphael's Village, elimae, EarthSpeak Magazine, Bolts of Silk, Vanilla Press, Word Catalyst, Tipton Poetry Journal, Cezanne's Carrot, Victorian Violet Press, Greensilk Journal, All Things Girl, and elsewhere. Below are a few selected poems.
originally appeared in Amarillo Bay, February 2015
Twenty weeks pregnant and I dream of
a child falling from great heights,
small hand slipping through my own,
face blank as a new moon.
Storm sirens wail in the night.
A cold front pushes east,
spawns twisters near our town
where a warm but wild wind blew all day.
I shake off the sheets and dreams,
wander our dark house alone.
From the window I see trees outlined by lightning.
Naked limbs spread and sway.
Only two days ago they flamed red and gold,
dripped color on the lawn like careless painters.
Now stripped bare, they stand
stark as bones on an X-ray photo,
or babies on a sonogram screen.
The Weather Channel warns
of damaging winds, cautions that
“small unsecured objects
may be blown about.”
I doze and dream again of children,
this time drifting down deserted streets
like tumbleweed in the old West.
Who will chase after them,
who will pin down their wings
like butterflies on black velvet,
like specimens in an airtight jar?
But the glass bubble is no favor,
and the caged
never thank you for it.
All I can strive for
is a den in the wilderness,
a nest on a cliff,
where those I love
return now and again
for heaping plates of peace.
My power is limited,
my protection short-lived.
To breed is to concede mortality:
for the first time I will love fiercely
someone sure to outlast me.
The Earth turns on its axis.
There is light
and light again.
Seasons collide in the crash
Bodies of planets and people
have this in common:
breathless depths of beauty,
and the necessary violence of change.
originally appeared in Raphael’s Village, September 2013
The evening news is all
smoke and fire and bombs,
with a chance of rain on Sunday.
Masked men rob a bank;
masked men run for Congress.
The President speaks.
The Great Oz commands,
“Pay no attention
to that man behind the curtain.”
I turn off the TV and go outside,
recalling the words of Saint Paul:
“We see through a glass, darkly.”
I must believe this.
The sunset thickens and swells
like a red wound on the horizon.
Tree frogs take notice
and chant the anthem of their tribe.
My husband sweeps away
the bodies of dead moths: martyrs
who worshipped at our porch light,
pilgrims imprisoned by screens.
Across the street,
children play a game
to which only they know the rules.
Their kingdoms rise and fall
between breakfast and bath time.
A whip-poor-will calls out her name
as if asking a question,
as if she wants to know
Summer holds its humid breath.
I stand at the edge of darkness
and wait for an answer.
A Country Wedding
originally appeared in Victorian Violet Press & Journal, Spring 2011
The bride shines like a pale star;
the groom, a half-lit moon.
Outside the church,
black cows graze an autumn hill.
A slow-burning sun
strikes gold in the hayfield,
torches the trees,
sets the distant barn ablaze.
We are gathered here today
in this time of drought,
this season of uncertainty,
to witness what remains—
and the greatest of these is love.
The Spirit, we are told,
once descended in the form of a dove,
but all we have is a crow on the fencepost:
common and unkempt.
Yet even he is transformed by light,
and gleams in the glow of dusk.
For a moment, all is splendid and semi-divine:
this day, an ember;
the world, a fire.