spine
she wakes on her stomach again. it hurts her back, belly swaying through
sleep. cheeks creased, shoulders eased from their sockets by hills of down
and flannel. her tongue falls from her palette and she can tell that the
day’s gonna kiss her too hard, pull at her hair, dribble juice on her
blouse, make her eat something charred with neglect.
later that night, hair fronded with sweat, she’ll pry the coal from her
mouth, determined to sleep facing heaven.
Bio: Cynthia Croot is a recent transplant from Brooklyn NY to the inland wilds of the pacific northwest. A theatre director by training, she is also the author of works of dramatic literature and prose. Her early Maryland working-class roots cemented a love of blue crabs, silver queen corn, steel manufacturing, estuaries and wild pony runs. This summer, she is traveling to Croatia to create a radio documentary about sex trafficking in Zagreb. Croot is an Assistant Professor of Theatre at Whitman College,Washington State.
Thoughts on poetry: Poetry has always felt to me like a strange space where formal intellect meets gut imperative. I love that it is a private inquiry made public something hidden meeting the light of day.