heart’s haunting

Valeria Eden


in the dream i am a mother.
my daughter’s curls are not mine,
but her nose is. the way it scrunches
in concentration, the wrinkles like
leylines across the map of her little face.

i tie her small body into a bouquet of
balloons and release her to the
open sky. distantly, i know this
is an act of love. still, my chest
cracks open and i wake up alone,
aching, heart stretching
toward the nearest window.


Valeria Eden is a poet, fiction writer, editor and author of Tender Teeth. She currently resides in Colorado and loves getting lost in fantasy worlds, circuses, and the color green. She has a BA in psychology from Boston University and is pursuing her MFA in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. Her work has been published in Bombay Gin, The Tongue is Sharp anthology, and is otherwise floating around on the internet. Val has three dogs, two therapists, and one boyfriend who try their very best to keep her grounded. In her free time, she can most likely be found curled up in a patch of sunlight with a fantasy book and a sweet treat.

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Wasteland Review is searching for raw, evocative writing. Poems with grit and soul. Send your best to wastelandlitmag@gmail.com

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