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Sophia McCurdy 

The lines through my heart are blue

  1. My old red bike standing in front of the river. Seeing people swimming though the handle bars. Navy sheets and crisp white pillows. A Renaissance painting on an old city wall. Strings of clear blue beads hiding the people in my kitchen.

  2. Checkered tiles and an inch of water. A shopfront in Lyon. All my bras hanging out a drawer, perfume sitting on top, baby blue walls. Love and light.

  3. Three pretty martinis on a glass table. A great view of the Midwest countryside, all vans and birds and power lines. Your friend’s head disappearing under the water, joyful splashing. A bowl of strawberries lying on a blue blanket, watermelon in slices. My hair blowing away with the wind.

  4. Mom’s rosary hanging from the center mirror, clinking with every passing mile. Summertime and haircuts and people who always leave. Sobbing while watching yourself in the mirror.

  5. A soft, gentle bed that you will never get out of. A book with a well-broken spine next to a glass of cognac. Piles of piles of white and blue china, all swirls and flowers. Everybody in the whole world hanging their laundry on the same street.

  6. Walking across the sand towards the deep dark part of the ocean. A sale on paperbacks that draws in a student of philosophy. A radio on a dark blue chair.

  7. Cooking breakfast with your best friend. A denim bag, a crowded street. Shower-slick walls and wet towels. Mosaic floors in star-burst patterns. A phone, sunglasses, and a pack of cigarettes. A drive-in movie that's showing two people kiss. A starry ceiling, the darkest blues. Everything is always changing.




Sophia McCurdy is a poet from Kansas City, Missouri. She is an English major
at Creighton University. Her work has previously appeared in
Shadows and

Bear Review


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