After it all
I pretend you don’t exist.
Not-uncommon, certainly warranted.
But it’s too late because
You are too many things. You are all the burning
stars extinguished on my body.
Dead stars still have heartbeats—did you know?
Churning electricity—woven coils of always-energy.
I still wear a ring we bought for four dollars
in the woods near a cranberry bog,
and I remember the chime of the metal
as I sifted through the nest of silver never
knowing that it was the one thing I would carry out of your tempest.
A heart cannot beat without electricity—did you know?
Silver is the most conductive metal.
On my finger this halo captures currents of
me making my world mine.
After it all,
I try to make you into a storm,
into a place with a beginning and an end—a hurricane;
quiet wind which tears boughs and cries.
Howls, into the rest of us, who
I keep telling myself— that storms with names do not return—after all.
Only El Niño: The little boy we wait for in winters,
when the earth slinks from the sun.
Originally from Albuquerque, NM where she attended the University of New Mexico, Kristian received her MFA from Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts and thus melded her love for the colorful Southwest with the stunning New England coast. Kristian’s first poetry chapbook, Storm, was released in July 2015 from Swimming With Elephants Publications in Albuquerque, NM. Her other publications of fiction and poetry are published in The Winter Tangerine Review, Philadelphia Stories, Duke City Fix: The Sunday Poem, Lightning Cake Journal, The Bellows American Review (The [BAR]), Ginosko Literary Journal and Medusa’s Laugh Press. She has taught scriptwriting at the Emerson College Pre-College Creative Writers’ Workshop and currently teaches English at the University of New Mexico-Valencia Branch. View Kristian’s work at Kristianmacaron.com.