Rachel Cruea

The Olives Will Keep Me Company

I’ve decided to live in the fridge; it’s quiet there. I’ll sustain
myself on hotel pillow mints because they taste nothing
like you, let my hair grow long. I’ll forget what your fingers
learned, my delphinium skin chilled beside Mezzetta glass.
I’ll try not to ask if my eyes are actually green
if no one can see them, that perhaps they’re really
the color of crocodile dreams. I’ll remember when

I went on a dinner cruise and the woman next to me
learned that her husband died while I stuffed my mouth
with cherry pie and pretended not to notice. You told me
not to worry; left every avenue on my doorstep. I wonder
how many times I’ll dream of losing all my teeth before
you find me, the light bulb glaring on when you open
the Frigidaire door. Please don’t let me fall in love with you again.

I Can’t Feel It, but Hold Me in Your Arms

You, with dark clothes and evening
eyes, taught me to smoke menthols, our mouths
coated with wine as you fussed with
my dress buttons; I left ashes on the windowsill.

We walked through the rain, skin wet
under a broken umbrella. Now, through
my sunglasses, I watch you walking
alone, remembering how you held me on
thick August nights, how

I couldn’t fall asleep with you, knowing
we’d wake to stale mouths; my back
turned away. My heart is full
for another with nothing to offer
but a hyacinth in one hand,
the night sky in the other.

Author Portrait

Rachel Cruea is an undergraduate student at Ohio Northern University studying Creative Writing and Literature. Her hometown is not far away in Findlay, Ohio. She has previously published her poetry in Polaris, Sun & Sandstone, Prairie Margins, and in forthcoming issues of The Vehicle and Collision. She thoroughly enjoys cats and wine, preferably both at once.