Chloe N. Clark's work appears in Apex, Booth, Gamut, Hobart, Uncanny, and more. She can be found tweeting about amphibians, teaching, and baking @PintsNCupcakes.

Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry: Other Words for Wanting

Chloe N. Clark

These Dreams Your Children Grow

My mother told me I was born in the night sky, falling through space like a tiny wailing comet and for years, you know, I believed in her. I saw the stars beneath my skin, veins shimmering milky way heart beating. Older, I grew suspicious, the sky seemed so far far away. And though I could taste the moon on the tip of my tongue it was like a taste foreign and unaccustomed: spices I’ve never been able to gain the trust of. A lover once pressed body into mine, said your pulse sounds like planets exploding — so distant and small and unremarkable for such a tremendous thing. When I call my mother on the phone, I ask if she can tell me what the sky looked like when I was born and she says: it was the color of your eyes, deep as ocean dark. And once upon a time, I had a dream I was drowning and no one heard me screaming and the water filled my lungs and the pressure was too great and the sky was inside out and my mother woke me up, told me to study the night. Outside my window, the sky was filled with light, thousands of stars calling me home or telling me to stay.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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