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C.N.P Poetry 

  • Writer's pictureCathexis Northwest Press


By: Chloe Ford


Winter’s eve. Wind haunts

the eaves invisible somewhere

beyond my black bedroom

window. Each piece of furniture,

tonight, a specter: encroaching and

hungry. Each breath stings

of the time before breath, the inevitable

return. I wait for my mother’s

headlights to stroke the frozen

driveway like a hand across

a troubled forehead. Each gust

mimics the sound of her arrival,

but falls short–

her absence crashes against

my rigid ribs. I nudge the cat

asleep at the foot of the bed,

half expect her to be stone.


I slip a finger into my-

self, spine curved cryptic as the word

queer. The grass beneath me forgives, though I didn’t

ask. I probe the question there. I stir

the flood—free and fertile and direction-

less. Cars screech vertical down the narrow road one way,

one way, but I’m all kinds of spreading


I’ll let the wordless animal in the wood watch

my walls melt, hip-lift away from too much

angular architecture. Don’t fence me. Imagine

multitude, multi-

dimensional desire, always doubling and suspended

in possibility like a tossed coin. Shelter

the yearn for a star’s white hard shoot through night’s cave and

for the luminous circle of the moon like a heavenward hole.

The simultaneity. Nothing’s a lie.

My desire doesn’t die, doesn’t kill. It births and

it births, and I’m borne and I’m born. I’m tonguing

the horizon, and I’m lung-ing the horizon

as the plural air swarms, as the woodpecker’s

thousand feathers thrust and

blur, chip away at a stubborn trunk

to reveal the fluid underneath.


Chloe Ford has been crafting poems since she learned to write. She currently resides in Portland, Maine and is pursuing a master's degree in Library and Information Science so she can support youth in their exploration of written language. Her poetry has been published in a few small journals.


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