[hur-i-keyn, huhr– or, esp. British, -kuh n]


  1. After a couple weeks sentence of staying in some foreign place with trees, she came back home and Miami jumped her, hugging her and licking her like an over-joyed dog, she dropped to her knees in the dramatic movie scene; the humidity was too heavy for her.
  1. Home tasted like storm clouds and shallow waters.
  1. Over the break a monster swallowed an entire city, while she was boarded up in her home, playing the LIFE board game with her family. The wind was crying, scratching against the shutters, possessing every instrument of chaos it could. It shook the house like a piggy-bank; it leaked beneath the sliding glass door, and crept into the white noise on the radio, all while the generator tried to drown out its tantrum.
  1. It must be God’s exasperation moving the palm trees.
  1. While the ticks were gluttonous and the mosquitoes bled the blood that wasn’t theirs: she rode her bike through gnat season – racing the dragonflies and horseflies – managing to escape the canopy of banana spiders hanging like pendulums from the banyans.
  1. Trees always looked like upside down ballerinas, and buildings resembled stuck up old men. Katrina broke the ballerinas’ branches, and shattered the men’s spines leaving nothing but the evidence of her being there drowning the remnants.


The featured images accompanying this poem, entitled Breathe’, have been used with the permission of artist Lois Van Baarle.

Christell Roach

Christell Victoria Roach is young writer who writes to give voice to the silence within herself and to move her readers with the words she finds.

Get the Most Recent Stories from Rollick

A weekly newsletter featuring new and emerging writers.

More from Rollick

The Day of Our Meeting

I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day

Godland: Sammie Jo

Sammie Jo don’t talk much. Her mother like to cut out her tongue any time she speaks up. A bone outta socket. As big as

Ca’Venezia: Your Voice

  Your voice alights on my armhair, a whiff of cigar smoke— caramel, and ghostly— “Cities die; let them.” Black thing to say. I patter