Creative Writing Corner

By Adrian Croke

5.last night I was walking home from the library around midnight and I closed my eyes, took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the dirt next to the sidewalk. it had rained earlier so the mud was soft. New baby green grasses shot up from a long snow-covered ground, sinking beneath my feet, pushing sweet against worn soles ready for summer heat. yes, yes remember this

this, teacher, is home


when nothing lies between upward-looking lashes
and sky

only the memory of being
wrapped in sleeping bags mardi gras beads I celebrated a birthday on top table rock mountain the smell of greylacks-they say that means it’s going to rain-and yes, that’s Cassiopeia surrounded by North Carolina Blue

she, whose words excel

throne-bound she
extended her hand to me
with promises
to chain me
to a rock
to be eaten
by the sea

my mother always did have a thing for A-names


she tells me I would have been an Aurora
constant dawns and sunshine

but Adrian, some boys name, seemed to fit better
rich, deep, dark

like the Adriatic, or some old-growth fir-tree forest
lying on the other side of the glass

project an image: I watch myself running-arms, hands spread out
brushing against spiny limbs and pine needles

the scraping of branches against forearms and the splintering sun light
through peels of birch bark

is constant
running-the yellow kitchen-

22 years of the same

even when I run on cemented sidewalks, my arms stretch out to rub
against the neighborhood shrubbery

only sometimes do I wonder
if that looks odd