The Woodpeckers Had Sung It Before You Were Born

in the summer we let this city swallow us

    whole. she fits her tongue around our misery,

concrete cutting gum, streets

        chiseled, pointing at my selves.

not a leaf in idle movement, not a parent

        to cut these weeds short. only august

and its screams. outright decadence in the name

        of peace. the atlantic shatters like a mirror.

i watch as the mirage repeats

        itself. a girl and a girl and a girl and a girl.

a look of heart-wrenching animosity:

        the torture of growing flavorless. heart

limp, arms tired, brain empty. the air smells

        of peaches and green tea. then there is you

and the city. crystal after crystal, the town

        silver. there is my look of unforgivingness,

there is the incandescent touch of

        oblivion. september comes at us with torch

and knife and a wound to suture. god opens the

        lid and her children float down from the sun.

i watch and i

        watch and i


Lara Torea is either on the beach or writing about haunted houses. She's a high school student and aspiring writer from Spain, and her work has been previously featured on Limelight Review. Otherwise, she tweets @melarancholic.