Attic of the Skull | Natalie Homer

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Natalie Homer has an MFA in poetry from West Virginia University. Her poems have been published in The Journal, Salamander, The Lascaux Review, The Pinch, the minnesota review, Ruminate, JuxtaProse, and elsewhere. She received an honorable mention in the 2017 AWP Intro Awards, and lives in Southwestern Pennsylvania.




Every Seven Years


The things you never want to see again keep replaying.

For me—pink baby mice in the entry of an Albertson’s,

and the man in front of me      his boot  no second thoughts.

His wife looked back at me      and I looked away.

I am good at looking away.


The town was called Swan Lake

but there were no swans        and there was no lake.

We split the barbed wire, then climbed through.

Later, I washed my hands in a gas station bathroom,

the liquid soap scented a bright, artificial grape.                 


Every seven years, a new body completely. 

A myth, but a nice one.

Nice to imagine. Strangers can be kinder than friends,      

you know. Like the men who pushed my car out of a ditch.

I opened my door to say thank you

but they didn’t hear me          over the wind and the snow.


but they didn’t hear me          over the wind and the snow.