C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Eros (Adorer/ L’amour); in a clearing in the wood; Imago

By: M.J. Stratton

Eros (Adorer/ L’amour)


there is a moon thickening crooning gripping

along my neck the womb

where I grow the words that soften


into lilies into palatable french into

the gummy tears black witch moths

find with fishhooks kiss

and then

take in


i found the scripture in the bottle

and the message said you can’t

lose an eye from nothing

that the mind is a peach pit rotting in the fridge when it should be


tucked back and into the clouds into the mouth-cheek the kayak into

the dream


I have learned I am never learning french

and that you are a dead-dog owner, crying

when you find half the black fly crushed in the sill

watch the wings twitch


there is a craving a throat a bent knee

my father told me the fool didn’t


that I am not a fool but a wanting

a stomach

a bin meant for shoes and the stray bits of road

picked up along the way


here is where tree limbs call cabs and windows tell you what it is

to play a piano under water

blue feels green to me

or green feels blue

and that means something doesn’t it


pupa come from the word doll

comes from me comes from what it means to squeak in the night in the

alone in the at risk and



my journal is heavy with phrases

like blue canoe the floating

tissue in this slack moment

and lemon morning

random words in french I write down

to forget

un sot trouve trojours un plus sot qui l’admire and so

what imagine if moth was a verb for kith

for a building for a beginning

and the toes that curl around eris

make her push and purr and only



french is green and rolling grass stains

on the knees of a stranger

eye catching my pearls in a mouth porous

with the words: you know

nothing about all of it

in a clearing in the wood

wash the knives    by hand    feed

and be fed   the rivers    the mouth 

& the handfuls of fish crying    for green 

for klonopin soak sponge dreams   the niceties that come

with tables made from chairs   & your left hip


write this down in fever    use grass blades      twigs found

in a stranger’s hair      make them a part of it    this

or risk the forgetting     the spotless spalding 

mind    the feathered        condor 


I found the raven eyed door in his skin

& inside was a counter a clay bowl & bread

in its pupa form leavening lifting

I wanted so badly to taste it to feel it’s softness

& become it but the wings with skulls came

& sprouted & took & I watched the dough fly

out the way I came in


How would one characterize M.J. Stratton? Student. Disturbingly pale. Twenty-three years old and “a woman now” but can’t get used to the sound of that. And human. So fucking human. Imperfect and awkward and so embarrassingly frizzy-haired-human that she feels everything as deeply as you do—she just writes it down. Previously published in Oscilloscope Literary Magazine and Prometheus Dreaming, Stratton is an up and coming empath who wants nothing more than to connect with you through life and art.