Rhea Cinna is a writer, film enthusiast and doctor. She loves big cities, museums, film festivals, animals in most non-reptilian incarnations and believes there’s no place like a moated chateau. She is a contributor for The Missing Slate. Her work has also appeared in Stone Highway Review, Rufous City Review, Crack the Spine and other publications.
I’ll tell you about an old summer kitchen
colored, the roof caved around the bread oven, and
fortune. I raised baby chicks there, long after
there and spread like ivy over miles, drank pearl water
blades to gnaw at the walls of a prison-temple, broke
are my stories good enough? I’ll sing you a river-long poem
where flamingos dance like horses on parade. I may
dug for rock treasure, hid it in their skin-cracks. Let me teach you
pay no heed to the owls at dawn.