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     The Literary Review
                                                                          Issue 8

Page 54

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The sun is a hot bruise

The sun is a hot bruise,
lighting up the now cold bed
where we once laid—

Even though
I will never tell you
where I’ve been,

I will wait forever
for you to call out
my name again

as I search your name across the sky.
Our names could have been entwined,
sheltered from the jealous sun—

but you disappeared
with any possible future plans.
I now lie in this bed, used.

  Carrie Magness Radna__


Pale disaster

Handcrafting another imaginary Sodom,
you wanted your costume
made from alabaster,
a natural, pale disaster
it was, and you were—
but your skin was not
strong as concrete,
it puckered too easily from the swampy heat
and you said you were strong
and you could take most of life’s blows,
but I know about the extra
whiskey bottle
you hid in the basement
and your smile became weary,
becoming a friend of misery
as you grow more transparent
with time—
I cut another lime with you
we grow more and pale,
invisible, like Gollum—

  Carrie Magness Radna__

Dilated at dark

Streets are now bluer. The windows, colored
either in butter or goldenrod, are bleeding
their light as mist from architectural honeycombs;

The lights from street level explode
like hot magma—cars speed on, double time,
shooting stars made by Toyota, Ford or Cadillacs

as the stoplights pulse angrily. Stop! Go! Go away!
The sharply-drawn lines are now blurred,
rain-like, on the driest night. I can’t see right

through my dilated eyes. The exploded lights
blinded me; I couldn’t move –until
I felt his hand, leading me home.

  Carrie Magness Radna__

© Carrie Magness Radna: Under Pioneer Square, Seattle (July 2019)
© Carrie Magness Radna: Under Pioneer Square, Seattle (July 2019)

Audio cocoon

Please wrap me up
in an audio cocoon;
warm my silken threads
by the morning light

as I hear 10 versions
of “Good Morning”
jamming from my
new Skullcandy headphones,
or soothe me to sleep
at midnight;

Cover me
with a dozen curling branches
that sing 10 versions
of “I love you”
as I gently rock
in the tree.

My new wings are still wet
but you can still
hear me sing away—

my chosen lullabies
are tinged with Soul
as my voice
grows into
a deeper chocolate

  Carrie Magness Radna__

The golden light

And I love the golden light
before it fades into night
off the Hudson, on the Pier

And the wind is picking up,
dancing through the brushes
growing on the High Line,
it’s too cold to stay out here.

Still I wait for you there,
outside the glass walls of the Whitney,
maybe by Spring
I’ll make it back here again.

  Carrie Magness Radna__