Red Skies
The young sailor said he would give me a modicum of love if I let him use my body as a harbor. He slept in the space between my shoulder and neck. Time folded around us like a thick blanket. The tender sky purpled like a plum. A red juice trickled down. I felt a lily bloom in my throat, soft white petals all clotted together—this is why I could not speak. He told me about giant squid, beautiful women with the tails of fish, whirlpools that could consume an entire ship. He called himself a man of the sea, as if the sea would have him. In the distance, the waves laughed as I curled my hand around his wrist, pulse-hunting. I had a suspicion that the sailor would always love the sky more than he could ever love a person. The sea ate the moon. Stars dropped off like flies. Messages in bottles came ashore. I had sent them all. They all said the same thing: Eat him before he drowns you.
About the author
Kimberly Ramos (they / she) is a queer, Filipina writer from Missouri. They are currently an undergraduate of philosophy and creative writing at Truman State University.…
Read the full bioIssue 24 · Autumn 2021
Table of contents
- Poetry
- Two Poems by Nick Conrad
- Three Poems by Dinah Ryan
- Two Poems by Daisy Bassen
- Three Poems by Carl Boon
- Two Poems by Patricia Behrens
- Tinnitus
- Upon Entering the Unknown University
- Two Poems by Christine Potter
- Earthly Possessions
- Egon
- The Overflowing Suitcase on a Bus Stop Bench
- Two Poems by Nathaniel Calhoun
- Blessing of the Animals
- Why Honey Matters
- Two Poems by Rimas Uzgiris
- Missing Buses
- The Trek
- Red Coat
- Watching a Late Autumn Thunderstorm
- Two Poems by Rick Mullin
- ON O’HARA’S BIRTHDAY
- I Travel Back in Time
- Postcard Prose
- Visual Poetry