Turpentine

My heart is a white shed that sits atop a hill.

A milk crate swing hangs low between two pines.

There, a younger self sat swinging.

Bruised knees and sap sticky.

I store what’s needed in that shed.

Some things tucked neatly.

Others, thrown to bury in a pile.

And the bits I like I hang on that clothesline.

It groans with rust and the wire clefts my soft hands.

But I do the pulling anyway.

I let the scattered rocks freeze and ache my bare feet.

And listen to the wind try and get me.

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Tori Edwards

Tori is a professional writing student from Newfoundland, Canada. When not writing or drawing you might find her listening to rock and roll or summoning the stray cats from the neighbourhood like a witch.