Kaleidoscope

The rain stopped, then started again. Nearly indiscernible.
From here, with every turn of my head, a mountain ascends.
On the street, pigeons strum with emerald, incandescent wings,
domesticated to deliver our messages then starved. My sister keeps
calling from her kaleidoscope, asking if I can see the colors morph
into stars, triangles, diamond maps for her delusion. If you just turn it,
softly. I love her enough to respond no instead of I wish. One at a time,
the ferns crawl down the tree line, lupines reach for wandering sky,
carpenter ants draw dashes into the dirt. I fear everything
that’ll succumb under my feet, fear that I’m too stubborn
to let beauty rest after I’ve killed it, wonder how much
I can take into my perception before I’m next to lose it.

Author of the article

Crystal Cox was born and raised in mid-Missouri. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Idaho. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sonora Review, Shō Poetry Journal, Phoebe, The Shore, Nimrod, like a field, and elsewhere. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. With seven years of literary publishing experience, she serves as editor for Outskirts Literary Journal. Read more at crystalcoxpoet.com/.