Poetry from Cloe Watson
I remember the Velveteen Rabbit
and his sick boy because I’m a sick girl,
and I just saw a black sky, bold
in its purple shadow. But velvet
can be any color, and I’m a woman,
was a woman when I crawled
to the bathtub, stopping just short
to pass out in child’s pose, my nose
to the floor, hands pinned against
my chest. When I woke my feet
were wet, and in calling for my rabbit,
my ears grew a bit longer and the tiles
beneath me began to sprout green
with a grief I’ve always known.
Cloe Watson is a graduate of the MFA program at Bowling Green State University. Her work has been published in Blue Unicorn, The Windsor Review, Oakland Review, Grand Little Things, The Racket Journal, Wingless Dreamer, Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Defunkt Magazine.