the arch of her collarbone
a bridge, her legs a throne,
the clean and simple lines
of her body free of confines.
she dances, arms akimbo,
hair flowing, and I know
that she belongs to the wind,
to breathe the free air, skin
pale and wide like the sky,
ancient thought of days gone by.


Plastic Sea

Here, where the river meets
the sea, the water spent,
where the sun rises, greets,
and the storms relent–

the waste of human life
lies here, spans a graveyard
of plastic, all the strife
and folly of a coastline marred.

Here, a soda pack wrapper
washes up, replete with salt,
and seagulls scatter.
the course of nature at a halt.



Moonlit hunter, given grace
to run and trip and trace
the stars with the tip of her bow,
her huntresses in tow.
Pure as mountain spring,
her hunting cry will ring
out across the wide plains,
her arrows a deadly rain.


Ayame Whitfield lives in Massachusetts and attends college in New Jersey. She was previously published in school literary magazines and in Timeless Tales Magazine. She placed seventh out of 250 submissions in Wax Poetry’s 11th Poetry Contest.

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3 Responses

  1. ines

    hello Ayame,

    I live in the Whitfield farm in Demopolis, AL.

    i was wondering if you are connected to that sude of the whitfield family, and if you know of a Boaz Whitfield?
    kind regards,


  2. Dona Fox

    Striking images. I’ve returned to this page to read your poetry numerous times. Thank you.


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