I remember your paper skin and the dents your gaze
left in this floor. Tell me I’m beautiful like this—
eyes charcoaled into something brittle.
Out of my mouth goes a murder of crows:
a riverbank eulogy, then the afterbirth.
Day breaks on the water, and the sun harbors
the mourning. Never mind my bubbled
skin, let’s just keep savoring the light.
We only exist in the crease between
one breath and the next, but we
must never forget to breathe.

If I peel this from my rib cage, toss it up
and will it to fly. Every wound
you bleed will betray the brightest
hymn. Steady your nerves,
and look past my shoulders
for forgiveness: Dawn herself
will spread us bare.

About The Author

Casandra Robledo is a sophomore pre-nursing student at the University of Illinois at Chicago. When she is not writing poetry, she volunteers for a number of student organizations on campus. She has an avid interest in photography, and she likes her coffee with extra sugar. Her work has been published in the Red Shoes Review and the 2015 issue of Brainchild.

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About The Author