View Archives by:


Dear City,

Cindy St. John

Braid my hair like the girl at the shop like Frida Kahlo but just look like a wannabe Swedish milkmaid. She collects bones, most thrown up from owl bellies and arranges them by shape, fat ones, thin leggy ones, sprocket body bones and stars. I woke up from a dream I had a miscarriage. Why is everything so fucking obvious? See this, I have pieces from a yellowed white tiny skeleton hanging around my neck, something I can fist, throw or swallow. I dream of colors and my body is filled with light. Now tell me, what is your secret?

Cindy St. John

Read Bio

Author Discusses Poems