Artemis jumps from the sky

where in her dreams she swayed between sly night shadows hunting constellations. Her bones shatter stars across the fissured hotel parking lot like a Milky Way of potholes and blank spaces in her memory. How did these scars come to trace my veins? Above the atmosphere she leaves a black hole before the sun who curls into his knees. When he lifts his fingers from his arms, white imprints burn his skin like irradiation. He thinks of other places he has set on fire, how the ashes from his touch fell like comets. And she, like the tail, turns away to scatter. Where did the purple nebulae on my hips burst from? Only a moment before, Artemis arched tight like a strung bow across the balcony railing, whispered her secrets to the chips of silver paint until her throat stung. Her thoughts shot forward into the empty space like shooting stars, like wishes she’d buried beneath parked cars. When did I begin to fall?

Mikayla Davis

Mikayla Davis is a third-year MFA student at the University of Central Arkansas. She has a BA in English from Eastern Washington University and several two-year degrees from Spokane Falls Community College. She is the poetry editor for Arkana and has poems published in Railtown Almanac, Northwest Boulevard, The Wire Harp, Gold Dust, and CandleLit.