from Little Runaway

Krystal Languell
(the passports curled up) (it was so humid in our rented room)
            
            (travel to forget the criminal element) (in my bad blood)


(Nothing very significant at the cemetery)            (an unremarkable lunch salad)


                        (The thrift shop closed six months ago)


((We lit candles for a man who died) (rusted cellar grate)) (near to home)


            (I was afraid (and I made my friend afraid too))


                        (another woman altogether said they may be (murderers))


((I'm more worried about) being backed over by construction vehicles)


            (in other places)            (I do pray for my family's safety)


                                    (mother says it isn't working)

More by Krystal Languell

(The essay on modesty)

(The essay on modesty) (in application for) (bodily autonomy)

              (She lost that case) (on (wide is the gate))  (rhetorically memorable)

                            (Arbiter rise)

(Attracted to) (the most minor) (advantages)                 (adopting gendered props)

              (Assaying willingness)                       (I notice a certain scarlet letter)

(Dream of a house)           (it can’t be mine)     (vast roominess)

                            (Dream of a beach) (but it’s a beach with a                 problem)

              (In the smug of your (natural woman))               (I have had (a stain) (a conceit))

                                        (Despite appearances (allegedly))

              (A medical person) (declares the injury a                                     non-emergency)

Related Poems

Albuquerque

I.

It could be snow, the way it floats, or ash
from ancient volcanoes awake and exploding. But instead

it’s seeds wrapped in something like down, released by the thousands
from cottonwood trees. If they land near water they grow

but mostly they don’t.

The sun starts to set and the air turns the color of a calm fire,
as if there were such a thing. Fire is always growing or dying,

and I love to feed it until it licks beyond what I can reach,
then I kill it or it might take everything.

II.

My brothers and sister catch the seeds like fireflies. They ask
if it glows in their hands. They’ve only seen the bright bugs on TV,

where happy kids hold them and watch the light
flickering, contained.

And Mother waits for Father to come home. Maybe she just got back herself.
Maybe she didn’t. Maybe he won’t.

III.

I watch the white spots slide across the achingly orange sun
and catch one or don’t, and see the old volcanoes, so far away

it would take a hard day of walking to get partly there; they slither into darkness.
And the mother mosquitoes gather blood for their eggs, and the stars wake,

and the crickets creak their noise to bring the females to them. But I will be different.
And the spiders wake and weave something beautiful to be destroyed

in the morning. But under the fireplace, the black widows create chaotic things,
webs just for eating, as if they didn’t care about beauty. But I care, at least

I think I do, and the daddy longlegs prance around the body
like it’s a sacred object: bright enough to bring the insects, but too hot to walk across.

I will be a seed that finds water and grows into a tree who doesn’t need anybody.