Cusp
It’s the moment before you turn the page,
dog-eared corner poised between thumb
and forefinger, the anticipatory shudder
of a horse’s flesh just before the fly lands.
Sun still high, the breeze – cat whisker
on goosefeather – prompts a flock into flight.
Summer is a bowl of blackberries eaten,
seeds still stuck in your teeth.
The Forgotten
Memory is the open mouth
of a blue whale,
behemoth
yawn, a cavern flooded
with light, water, krill.
All flows through the filter.
Most morsels catch
in the baleen bristles, but some
dislodge, get lost, become nothing
more than bits of jetsam
in the great swilling wake
of gargantuan jaws. Imagine
the collective weight
of what floats away, each minor,
unnoticed departure
unfathomed..
Chelsie Kreitzman is a native of Michigan now located in Lexington, Kentucky, where she lives with her husband, two sons, and two pets. Along with reading and writing, she enjoys almost any outdoor activity and spending time with her family. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Confetti, The Last Stanza Poetry Journal, The Heartland Review, and Yearling.
Pegasus 
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