Natalie Crick

Sunday School

Madeline loves it
And sits as Mother would.
The priest is like her Father
Dressed all in grey,

Palms fluttering with
Paper clowns,
Legs and arms spinning anti-clockwise
Like the priest’s eyes slide

From side to side.
We are his for an hour
But he cannot touch us,
For we are jewels to be watched,

And, one day taken.
Nobody has ever held his hand
But Grandmother, with rings like
Little girl’s warnings.

This is my house of God,
Rain thundering as
Unanswered questions.
Their faces are taught and chilled with frost.

He is the bee of androgyny
Thrusting candelabras as tusks.
This drone of activity,
It is all too much for me.

Faces dumb as naked dolls.
He strips them, licking them with stars
Like potential girlfriends
Or meats to be weighed.


She was born
In summertime, with
Rainbow smoke pouring out from her mouth

Like journeys in the sky.
Doves danced in her hair.
Who would know
What was to happen next?

She lived in a chapel
Of glass walls
And God was like
A beautiful deviant to her, a brother maybe.

Madeline. Oh, how I will miss you!
What is life all about?
It is like upsetting all of your best friends and
Turning around

And around
And around

Blood, it pumps through her veins.
Her heart is white jelly.
Madeline, when she was born
She died inside herself.
Sssshhhh, everything is quiet now.



natalie-crickNatalie Crick has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry is influenced by melancholic confessional Women’s poetry. Her poetry has been published in a range of journals and magazines including Cannons Mouth, Cyphers, Ariadne’s Thread, Carillon and National Poetry Anthology 2013.

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