Eleanor Rector


suddenly, summer
bursting the seams of our
streets, every crack and crevice
burgeoning with bloom, overflowing
and I wish I could
abound so abruptly; I wish
I could ripen so easily, could be
plucked from my nest, and
sliced open in an
intimate appraisal of
my efflorescence

suddenly, silence
save the buzzing heat, the
symphonies of cicadas, the pulsing
beneath our feet where
colonies of snakes impregnate
the earth, burrowing into her
flesh and dirt

suddenly, the solitude
of stagnation, of watching
each season stretch her legs as I
clench my teeth, as I beg my
ribcage to never blossom, my aching
knees to keep still, as I train each
knuckle to tighten its grip
and here, the bones of myself
lay, discarded last autumn
like the hardened core of a stone fruit
cursed after its sharp edges
cut tiny rivulets
into your lips
I do not own the
bravery of summer, the way
she appears in a whirlwind of
ephemerality and eternal evolution
I do not recognize the
way she announces herself, voice
deep and full of laughter
forever unfolding into satisfaction
and self-determination
I do not know how to unravel myself
into sapling verisimilitude, and how to
stretch out my arms into forests,
overgrown and wild
enough to remain unhidden, discernable
even in dusk




Eleanor Rector is a South Florida native who works as a Crisis Counselor in Chicago. She studied poetry at the University of Miami under Maureen Seaton and John Murillo. Her work can be seen in Mad Hat Literary Magazine, Verity La, Black Heart Magazine, The Cape Rock, and others.