by maggie mahoney


The air is damp

as my cotton shirt with the aftermath

of rain.

It smells fresh: of nothing, of newness.

Sparse trees carry

dappled signs of autumn.

They are boastful, molting — evolved.

Dew glazes brown branches

until they gleam, heavy

with moisture.

Wet leaves form a patchwork

on pavement,
 the world spinning

a colored quilt as the sky

grows pale.

My clothes form a skein

plastered to my body that presses

the cold into my bones.

I long to peel

paper thin fabric away and coax

the water to dissipate.

Rain runs

like blood in my veins —

internal, eternal.

I am overflowing,

drowning from the inside out.


I am a junior Journalism and Literature double major currently studying abroad at King’s College London.