Rachel Nix

Rachel Nix grew up in the Deep South of Alabama, and still resides a stone's throw away from where she ran around as a child. Despite an irrational fear of frogs, she's pretty much declared herself content with living in the boonies. She does, however, like to take roadtrips and see what hasn't found The South just yet. Being a big fan of music and nature, poetry seemed a sure-fire way to group all her loves into one. Encouraged by her grandmother at a very young age to value her own thoughts, Rachel has always been a lover of what words can represent. She means most everything she says, despite bouts of sarcasm, which would likely be her second greatest love. Her previously published work can be found at A Sharp Piece of Awesome and Wordsmiths. You can follow her on her very own rinky-dink nook of the Internet, found at chasingthegrey.com, though she almost never updates it.  

 

Five Poems (February 2013. Issue 40.)

Push

Listen HERE

By the book, I am
damned.
Commands meant
to be followed
by the faith-filled
were swallowed
without thought,
then hollowed
those followers
out.
Now, to me,
they look
for a nod,
maybe even
an amen
and then
they profess the word
quoted, but misread
and send me off
damned
as a do-gooder
with no pull.

Killers Are Quiet

I despise your eyes,
how they hum in requiem
to our end, coming
so soon while you utter
not even a word.

I watch your rhythm
focused in dark pupils
that carve confessions
into my bones;
my purity being stripped
by a man with no verse
gently spoken.

Killers are quiet, so they say,
but you do not bother
to dilute me with presumptions
even slightly indicative
of a life surfacing
beyond these sheets.

I wait, with labored inhalations
'til we die, a little death
before I forget
you will be gone
sooner than the light could find me.

Cultivate

My fingertips bruise;
they stain,
while digging
against soft dirt
that keeps falling
more into place.

The rut
in which I did reside
that offered no shelter
nor escape,
offered at least
the view of the garden
I never noticed.

I am
buried beneath
something glorious.
I can not reach
to grab hold
of roots, the anchor,
keeper of pretty things
that are not to be thrown away.

The earth I am home to,
for such a short spell,
has come to own me
for as long
as eternity will allow.

I am settling,
and the farmer
cares not.

Monster

Monster, I can see your shadows
even in the dark.

They stagger
with shaky breaths
and drop moments
with sharp edges.

You are clumsy and unforgiving
with your steps.

You've cut your feet
and can not walk
away, and I am weak
from the blood lost
between us.

You are my biggest fear,
and the light is yours.

Epilogue

I am dog-eared, worn and left-
waiting to be picked up again;
tired of being left between the lines.

I am no classic example
of a woman of the ages.
rather, I am a woman:

bound by greater expectations,
hardly by cover, and
[I'm]pressed by time.

The Legendary