Blackbird

Christine A. MacKenzie is currently a student of creative writing and psychology at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. She is a regular writer for Mentality Magazine and The Odyssey, as well as a Crisis Counselor and anatomical dissector research assistant. She has been published in Eunoia (March 2018), The Underground (April 2018), and Teen Ink Print (November 2017). 


Blackbird

Time will stop when I ask this time
Because we’ve boarded a ferry on the Adriatic
Headed out on the shimmering blue to an island
Off of Croatia, I can’t wait for you to dive into the sea in that
Little red bikini, into the rocky water splashing onto stray cats
At the shore, I’m crossing my fingers that time will stop
Now, for the both of us, because I asked it to.

Blackbird smashed into our window, seizing in a little pool of blood
On our white hotel balcony, everything was white, the cleaning ladies
Swept it into the garbage when we left for the pool, I cried in the bathroom
When you were swimming because I was furious that time speeds up
At the time of death—that’s not fair!—I wanted one more moment
To tell the bird this is time for you to sleep, little one, no more crying.

You stepped out of the water and wrapped a towel around your
Goosebumped body, radiating the sun off your skin,
‘Ya look like a ghost, hun’ then handed coins to the vendor,
Two pastries, covered in powdered sugar,
Crunched and melted on my tongue, then
You looked into my eyes and time obeyed.

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