by Susan Cronin
Let’s imagine a liver lives forever.
15-year, no-nonsense proof.
Bite of orange, a caramel on toast—
on the nose, as one expects—before
a sip slips a hint
of hummingbird tears
harvested with care and
exquisitely measured.
No reason why she hadn’t slept
with the hot crew team
guy across the hall in college,
the one with a Raggedy Ann
and Andy pillowcase.
In his dorm room they would
lie on the floor watching
M*A*S*H reruns, 11 p.m.
(Sophomore year, and she—
all striped tights, black
sweaters, messy red
lipstick—she, the raw,
exacting creature most herself.)
A double, neat,
please, purest water only
on the side in an
antique finger bowl.
Beyond the Imaginary
What exists
beyond the imaginary?
What cradles our fledgling hearts
in the death-dark corner
of a folded page?
Not real, not unreal.
We strain to hear
a strange and singular voice
whispering in a distant room.
As If Not Not Here
The theoretical sheerness of fog, the necessary space between droplets The edge of a shadow clipped by a headlight The first angry simmer of sun on the horizon The pale warmth of a face held by a pillow Then just the pillow A spider’s legs, their elegance, their slip over the ledge Sentences, unfinished, unforgotten The ever-future future tense, its jump scares
Susan Cronin earned an MFA in poetry from the New School and attended the 2023 Juniper Summer Writing Institute at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. My poems are forthcoming in Pine Hills Review and have appeared in journals such as Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Grim & Gilded, Blood Tree Literature, LIGEIA, Southwest Review (2022 Elizabeth Matchett Stover Award), A-Minor, Nashville Review, and DMQ Review.