Plums at Night

The night is plum-dark.
Horses hang in the depths of sleep,

Haunches gleaming blue-black as
Dripping dusky fruit,

Skin enticing touch,
Misted by the press of my thumb.

I want to bite right down
To the hard grooved core,

Flesh dense as
Blood in lungs,

Pulse of the heart
Throbbing to be licked,

Thirst and murmur and desire
Rolling the tongue as the

Horse’s eyes
Turn to their whites in
Wide and open as a cage

In the belly of the night,
Asking: “Do I dare?”

Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published in a range of journals including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds and The Penwood Review. This year her poem, “Sunday School” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

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