Whitney Vaughan
Creeper
Six feet under the hedgerow is a pile of bones. Nowadays, they call them a corpse, but I prefer to think of them, singly, then together, as a fort or teepee, roughly crafted and farting within the soil. You died for me a thousand times, but you always grew back, as a cat, or violin, its strings made of gut. Now? When I try to siphon you away, into the bureau or basement, I imagine you leaking like a busy ether, claiming its fix. Your nitrogen stinks, and your body, it clings to me like grass, like a half-drunk lady in heels. I wash myself off – again and again. But still, your steely gaze is upon me, it gropes my matronly ass with the conviction of a coffee stain. No wonder you survived, then died – of boredom. Vines grow in the distance, but your name/your face/your reasons live beneath the topsoil, which is littered with the flowers I bring to you each spring: my forgiveness.
Up for Air
Between the black lines of the swim lanes, here in a downtown Y, I hover inches above the drain. I am six years old, yet already death is about me— on land, at least. Here? My spine is a fearless rabbit, able to twist like a circus balloon, or like a top hat magician who pulls a fresh dream coat from the depths of his hat. I plan on staying here, for as long as my tiny lungs will afford. I think of the Richmond night that sits on this glass building like a thug, eerily satisfied with his coup. I think of the veins in my hand as a road map to what I might become, if I could only look up.
Whitney Vaughan is currently pursuing her Master's in Writing at John Hopkins in Washington D.C. She has published poetry and nonfiction in Asheville Poetry Review, XNK, The Village Voice, The Independent Weekly, and Curve Magazine. She was a Bread Loaf Scholarship winner, a scholarship winner to Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, and was most recently awarded a John Woods Scholarship to study poetry in Prague. She lives in Baltimore, MD, with her kitties Aphex and Gerty.
