Poetry Season

by Bria Pritchard


Endeavors to lash the delicate; the poems that season were gamey. Sanguineous, their shades were the color of feverish mouths aflame with Irish whiskey. Discordant consonants upset white space on empty page.

Wanting dervish whirlwind words snaked sibilant across empty screen, these poems mosey, clumsy as Beefalo Bovine. The love poetry that year was mean as the vermillion moods that encouraged it ugly

Chipped like worn fingernail-polish that screams I’m not a waitress, not thirtyish: Announcing open season. Couplets didn’t stand a chance with borrowed gunrunner words ricocheting so close to hearts on imitation parchment.

I once read a poet god’s manual—instinctively plunging into trappings, falling for ground, field-dressing verse, a pitiless paring. Skinless sonnets confounded meter with my re-naming myself into existence.

I read myself raw. I flee into enjambments timed with the precision of a metronome whilst my lazy twined tongue trips over a trail of new words. My poesy limps along

shot full of red; empty fruit, target practice.

C. T. Pritchard grew up in Texas and is currently completing an MA at New Mexico State University. This is her first publication.