The peacock devours his plume absently
as the mermaid falters posture among sinking swells—
black lines that separate air from cloud from bird,
tree from leaf from root, tiny pictures painted black.
Hung in strict rows for me to chart your path,
I follow you foolishly to the sea.
Closer, I can feel the gloom’s yawning breath.
Closer and the dawn’s golden nod escapes the wire.
Compass misplaced and panic where sleep should be.
About the Poet:
Kristen Clanton is an adventurer, defenseless only to gravity and the subconscious. She graduated from the University of Nebraska, earning an MFA in poetry. Her poetry and short fiction have been published by Bicycle Review, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Burlesque Press, MadHat Drive-By Book Reviews, MadHat Lit, Midnight Circus, The Outrider Review, Ragazine, Quilt, and Sugar House Review. She has work forthcoming in The Mangrove Review and Otto Magazine. You can see to all that here: http://www.kristenclanton.com and contact her here: email@example.com