Yellow Brick Road

by Natalie Homer

Hush, bird. Listen.
There’s only one way out of here.
(out of the woods out of the dark out of the night)

A tunnel is a mineshaft is a chimney.

If death were a color it would be yellow,
pale like old pages, doctors’ gloves, February earth.
Or maybe more like bones, cartilage, teeth.
by Natalie Homer

Follow me. Fly, don’t sing.

This is a pilgrimage. You should be used to them by now.
It is only because of the darkness we are seen
in the sunlight we fade to white
like whisps of smoke that flaunt their curves
when all that’s left of us are hard angles.
They stretch until they become part of everything, part of nothing.

 

Natalie Homer is a cranky librarian from Southeastern Idaho. She enjoys cats, rainy days, and catching up to the person who cut her off in traffic. Her work has appeared in Black Rock & Sage and The Roanoke Review.

Natalie Homer
Natalie Homer is a cranky librarian from Southeastern Idaho. She enjoys cats, rainy days, and catching up to the person who cut her off in traffic. Her work has appeared in Black Rock & Sage and The Roanoke Review.

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