Tag Archives: Chrys Tobey

by Chrys Tobey

Made of paper and popsicle sticks. Made of sadness.
This part carries my past loves. This part has my childhood,

my shame. This part holds my loss. I am sailing it down
a stream of rainwater. I have painted it orange because someone

I once loved wore this color. I don’t know if you’ll ever find it.
Maybe you will, but you won’t want it. Maybe you’ll be too afraid. Continue reading →

by Chrys Tobey

which used to be our house, the key I’ve offered to return, but
you insisted, Keep it in case you want to visit the cats, and since

Continue reading →

By Chrys Tobey

When I was twenty, I should’ve slowed down, should’ve realized
I was having a midlife crisis, but instead I was busy running

from a bear and chasing deer. I should’ve scraped clearer words
in clearer caves for others to find. Maybe they’ll never find any of this.

Maybe you’ll never find any of this, and this shit show, this life
of mud and ice and wind is for nothing. My heart has been a pile Continue reading →

by Chrys Tobey

I’m not sure if she was always a planet
far off in our solar system, farthest from the sun,
made of ice and rock – or if it happened the year
I was born, the year the great blizzard swept through.
Continue reading →