Art for Crocus (untitled_uncredited)



J. and I

eat ice cream bars

on the front porch.

I am moving in



Somewhere, a shovel

scrapes dirt. Today

feels like spring

but isn’t yet.


Purple crocuses

grow thick and low

by the porch steps.

I put my face in dirt

to smell them.


It seem right,

greeting spring like this:

getting on the hands,

getting on the knees.



J. and our poet friend

stayed awake all night,



Our friend wrote

a book-length poem

about the crocuses.

He called them cups of light.


J. will design the book’s cover. Vellum.

Translucent as a bridal veil.

Red birds and clocks.


Later, the poet will burn all the copies.

About the Author: Halina Duraj‘s fiction has appeared in The Harvard Review, The Sun, The 2014 PEN/O. Henry Prizes, and is forthcoming in Ecotone; her poems have been published in Bat City Review, Cimarron Review, and the Poets of the American West anthology. Her debut story collection,
, was published by Augury Books in 2014 and was a finalist for the 2015 Council of Literary Magazines and Presses Debut Fiction Firecracker Award. She teaches literature and creative writing at the University of San Diego.