CJ is a poet and writer living in Nashville, Tennessee with a degree in English and a double minor in creative writing and history. She’s had work published in Aurora: the Allegory Ridge Poetry Anthology, Sinew: Poetry in the Brew’s Poetry Anthology, and the Belmont Literary Journal. And when she’s not writing about women’s lives or taking moody walks in the cold, she’s working with kids as a counselor and writing instructor.
It’s a log cabin I hole myself up in Thoreau-style, my only neighbors the pines, cedars, the black walnuts littering the floor with their dense body musty, bittersweet, thick NPR calls it the un-walnut and the black birds agree, knocking the fat fruit from the canopy embodying how thump is sounded out by the mouth, tha-ump, tha-ump it sinks through the air like the winged seed of a maple – samaras – they’re called, the word a gob of honey slinking down the lip of a mug, samaras, samaras, they evolved to fly, to carry their seeds to sunnier more hospitable places, to keep tucked in, tucked away, tucked beneath the brush where the white dotted fawns lay spindle under spindle leg, quiet and waiting. When you spot them, you stop. You hold your breath. You move on.