there’s an angel sitting in the creek in a muddy dress. she’s less girl and less boy than the turtle we’re watching in silence. she smells metallic like the pennies in the gas station cup in the old truck in the gravel driveway. we don’t speak but i know her voice sounds like whip-poor-wills and rusted wind chimes. the poplar trees and gray sky tell me the rain will wash her away. and i’ll find her again sittin in trees and fumbling through poison ivy. she’ll be stuck in the truck speakers and the pages of the book i left hidden on the back porch when i was eleven. underneath the rocks i shot with my bb gun play acting emergency. she doesn’t speak to me but sometimes when i sing i feel her voice under mine. i’ll follow her until my eyes are blurry sometimes, but i wake up and she’s gone again and the creek water is running on my bare feet.
​​
​Calia Jane Mayfield is a poet originally from Georgia that now resides in South Carolina. She lives with her best friend and many dogs. You can find more of her work in Wrongdoing Mag, Not Deer Mag, Poetically Mag, and others. You can find her on Twitter @yetiwaterbottle.
image: Phil Desforges via Unsplash