Arizona's State Bird
Emma Crockford I have met girls whose hands are made from bars of soap, meant for washing the world raw again, and I have kissed boys with penny candy for teeth, who melted in the rain; but I have never met anyone like you, with riverbed rocks for knees and laughter built by stormclouds. Barefoot in the heat, your hair is a tumbleweed. Teeth flashing, roadside billboards smiling. Arizona on a Sunday night. The metal of your parent’s car keys sings in your left hand. My chin is tucked into the crook of your neck; a cactus wren, a broken wing. I am telling you about the dream I have, where the boy next door, back from the ground and smelling like the clay we buried him in, knocks on his own front door until his skin peels off. This whole desert is littered with bones. You are tracing roadmaps on your arms with the pen I found under the passenger seat; remembering everything that won’t stop happening. |
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About the Author:
Emma Crockford is currently a sophomore at Rising Tide Charter Public School in Massachusetts. Her interests include goats that look like old men, and dogs that look like their owners. In 2015, Emma was chosen to attend Grub Street's Young Adult Writer's Fellowship. Emma is the founder and editor of her school newspaper. Emma's work has appeared in or is upcoming in The Noisy Island, Teen Ink’s Print Magazine, Parallax, and Grub Street's Fellowship Anthology.
Emma Crockford is currently a sophomore at Rising Tide Charter Public School in Massachusetts. Her interests include goats that look like old men, and dogs that look like their owners. In 2015, Emma was chosen to attend Grub Street's Young Adult Writer's Fellowship. Emma is the founder and editor of her school newspaper. Emma's work has appeared in or is upcoming in The Noisy Island, Teen Ink’s Print Magazine, Parallax, and Grub Street's Fellowship Anthology.
