wildscape. literary journal

Unwritten in New England
by Trinity Richardson

Cold Maine sand burns my soles,
reminding me of Christmases in Florida
spent praying for snow, 

circus whir deadened
by rushing blood and quickened breath
outlook: bleak, immediacy: none.

I lost my first best friend 
the night they told me they loved me
and swallowed sand til they burst.

I tell myself I could write 
if I could only get to New England,
but all my friends have a proclivity for

heatwaves and self-harm.
The psychic on the corner said
I decide what comes next,

but I do not trust myself;
I would sit and wait for 
anyone I’ve ever loved.

about the author // Trinity Richardson