ISSUE SIXTEEN: Realmy Styles | ← first poem

Ocean Voice

Natalie Crick

The night is dying,
Morning merely mist.

Clouds remains silent
About their loss.

We cross frontiers
So easily that we mistake
Heaven for blue sky.

My voice was blind, grayed,
Rolling like a nightingale into song.

The ocean still haunts,
It’s salt embedded
In our skin.

Natalie Crick from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including Rust and Moth, The Chiron Review. Ink in Thirds, Interpreters House and The Penwood Review. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Her first chapbook will be released by Bitterzoet Press this year.

ISSUE SIXTEEN: Realmy Styles | next poem →

ISSUE Sixteen: Realmy Styles

Jessie Janeshek
   Watching Horror/Watching Harlow

Laura Filion
   Growing Out

Timothy Berrigan
   By Letting Rooms

Stepy Kamei
   A Wolf Stalks Amongst Her Sunflowers

Alejandro Escudé
   The Republic of WannaCry

F. Daniel Rzicznek
   from Leafmold

Josh Silver

Kimberly Prijatel
   assembly of god

Dawn Pink
   Cotton Morning

Amanda Tumminaro
   Evening Routine

Natalie Crick
   Ocean Voice