willa—
by Erica Mitchell
University of North Carolina at Greensboro
Born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina, Erica Mitchell is a Creative Writing BFA undergraduate student attending the University of North Carolina at Wilmington. Featured in local magazines and issues from her home city, she aspires to do what she loves through as many mediums as she can: tell stories that matter.
pink muhly grass in the outer banks
only talks during the late summer season,
when the girl who says she’s not rich sips
a dirty chai on her battered wrap-around porch.
i always think about the sunrises on kitty hawk,
planted behind the stilted pier. when i brought
you, it sparkled against those
yellow and greyed-out lenses.
water’s freezing, but breakfast is served hot.
i think you’d be just like me, sneaking away to the buffet
for seconds and making chat with the boys
story-worthy. do those leaves crunch better
below your feet or in your teeth? go chase
the waves, kick up damp dirt and sand;
cloud nine, but we’re stuck in the dense fog of dawn.
i’m so sick thinking about asking you to stay
young.
i pray to the girl’s God that you’ll live beyond myself;
me before you. but i’ll never tell you so
i’ll leave it to the wax myrtles.