A Tiny Piece Up On Moonsick Magazine

wow. your writing piece on carrying the girl up the hill and filling the bath was astounding. like i was listening to something while reading it, and had to stop the audio because i wanted to pay way more attention to what you were saying. the imagery was already great and then you added metaphors that were perfect. like her breathing seemed to come from miles away, and the yellow door that spilled yolk onto ceramic are super lines. "I think she can breathe the air." was my favourite line. wow x

AH thanks this is so kind!! Thanks so much for reading. Honestly I can’t say that enough, it helps a lot to hear that it maybe gets read/ matters a bit to someone for a moment. I hope you have a lovely week.

The Kiss - c. essington   (After Gustav Klimt) 

               someone spent too much time on something. 

Hello

to the new followers. Just broke 600 so, you know, it’s a whole bundle of lovelies. Let me know if you’ve got any questions!

                       - C. Essington

the fire going down until its just  loose heat and fruit, the quick lisps of faces caught at its edges, those missed-stitches of expression, the looping sugars of eye-contact swimming softly, breathing glow.

the sky unclenches a mouth or two —  water trips out of the night  with the same sort of muscle your mother unbuckled to drop the bread knife on the tile. it all goes streaking past the long grey howl of window.

tonight, the house is a sound, the edges where the  rain dies into water. the roof is a flat noise painted awake by a thousand needle-wide of shots in the dark. 

the shrapnel catches in the ears, stays to make a soreness, and replicates a cloud’s shaking by jostling an eardrum. 

no wounds wake up from dreams to populate your skin. the dog is scared like the world’s already been done and undone  at least seven times 

and it has but tonight this house is a sound and the tips of bodies shaking here  only mean that it is being heard and there is an architecture to the thunder. 

                                       - c. essington 

              - C. Essington

I work for this publication — it’s a really wonderful experience and the product it creates brings a set of lungs to many important voices! Please consider sending in yours. 

Submissions are open until July 18th for our third issue! We want your poetry prose and art. We want your stories. 

exit music for a sister driving out of state

the wind is crowned in lemongrass as it stumbles from the field, some king that left her throne cold and throbbing — a purpled cheek under a frozen section of steak, the marbled fat of citizens needs veining through a red-velvet muscle.

I breathe in once and hold it, the day and its run-away king at the top of the air, her slipping royalty, the field bright as honey in lamplight or lamplight in honey.

I build a little headache and keep it like an ant under a glass, its sharp frantic body agonizing blackly in the circle of my skull, as if it had a home of sand to crawl back to but my bones kept it from the colony.

this is enough, I’m sure, the king and my thrum of forehead, enough to fill the day to its brim, nothing else could possibly be happening to us. I bow once and the ache follows me down, I think to kneel as a gust trips by, to become knighted and feel the ant itch up to a scarab beetle— scratching the hieroglyph for migraine onto the edges of the over-turned trap of glass and brain.

                  - c. essington

                        - c. essington

poem excerpt on drawing excerpt.

exit music for a sister driving out of state

the wind is crowned in lemongrass as it stumbles from the field, some king that left her throne cold and throbbing — a purpled cheek under a frozen section of steak, the marbled fat of citizens needs veining through a red-velvet muscle.

I breathe in once and hold it, the day and its run-away king at the top of the air, her slipping royalty, the field bright as honey in lamplight or lamplight in honey.

I build a little headache and keep it like an ant under a glass, its sharp frantic body agonizing blackly in the circle of my skull, as if it had a home of sand to crawl back to but my bones kept it from the colony.

this is enough, I’m sure, the king and my thrum of forehead, enough to fill the day to its brim, nothing else could possibly be happening to us. I bow once and the ache follows me down, I think to kneel as a gust trips by, to become knighted and feel the ant itch up to a scarab beetle— scratching the hieroglyph for migraine onto the edges of the over-turned trap of glass and brain.

                  - c. essington