Amy
You speak of Seattle,
branches of water
all green and far away
as your eyes on the skyline.
You speak of gems
your shaking hands
aren’t equipped to hold,
shattering into
red sparks.
You speak of your breath
turning blue, of smoke puffs
and a tent without a flashlight.
You speak of a purple sunrise
where you kiss me, but I keep
pulling the blanket
over my face.
Cocoon
moss climbs up the gnarled oak tree
an echo of a red swing
and fingers too small
to wrap around daddy’s hand
somehow spring keeps coming
hot water poured too quickly
over tea bags
taxes
quiet sex
and the sound
of a chainsaw starting
Insomnia
Viewing the world
through a stolen cigarette,
the covers clamor
to capsize my feet
like the stomach of some
horrible creature.
Your pillow is a second face
in the dim light.
Kaleidoscope
Your stubble against my raw cheek
makes me forget I’m finite,
nourishes like a tree growing
through earth, leaf green
against the breezy sky.
How does the medicine know
where to find the pain?
How do your hands know the certain spot
on my back that all tenderness
flows through? Prickling with magic.
Turning circles beneath a gray blanket,
you stamp my mouth with wet kisses.
My body knows how to find the gold.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who organizes her dreams in her sleep and struggles with being fully present. Keep up with her work on Twitter at @apoetrybomb.
