C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Midnight;

By: Chloe Ford


Midnight







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.





And







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

secret.


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.