when I close my eyes,
my bones quiver like I’m
the girl I was last summer,
waking up eighteen on
the banks of the river,
four inches deep in little boys
that press themselves flush
into the creases of my barefoot callouses
it’s there:
honeysuckle, rationed
single drop by single drop,
nectar touched so gently
by our green mother
that it’s bitter to my tongue,
pressed inside my cheeks,
to bite, to knead,
sewn into silk-hewn soil
that bleeds roots from seeds,
bursting leaves like sunburst skies,
like the amber-glossed eyes
of every horse I led to water
only to never let them drink
by Alora Ray
Alora Ray is 20, temporarily lives in Northern Virginia, perpetually lives in a state of denial, performs for whimsy, writes by necessity.
