Claire Kroening is an award-winning poet, writer, and editor residing along the great lakes. Their work appears or is forthcoming in a plethora of international literary publications including the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, Plork Press, Lugar Magazine, Sunday Mornings at the River, and elsewhere. When not browsing the latest zines or working on their upcoming chapbooks, they appreciate visiting art museums and exploring the coastlines.
Saccharine Lies on Hilltop Skies
Dusk breaks on damp leaves,
swans scatter into her blue—
clouds bleed overhead.
Summer died at the hedges, tart cherries
held on her tongue—
dissemble trickling
like kismet crochet, long-worn reveries;
she beared sunset's weight through
orchard-lean,
an aching remorse
upheavals seraphic, plastic wings.
Tell me where she endured
her last breath.
We're not loops, not coils.
We twist like threads—
sharp, taut,
slicing through time
until the edges fray.
Hands unfurl,
dissolve violet seams
where we were never meant
to fit within strict definitions.
What remains
is what was always there—
a fractal-blooming,
pieces lost to wind,
and found again.
