GLENMEDE, WINTER

EMILY PINKERTON

 
 

Your words are slick and smooth / palegreen, earthy /
rich like well-tended farmland. / Soft dirt / I run my hands through
/ without encountering a stray verb. / No stick or grit /
on my clean hands. / Your words are pure /soft
pressure /on my shoulder blades / reveration
left between them / my spine can’t forget / soft air
tracing my collarbone / my eyes flicker / I’m distracted again /
by colddark reflections / in the cracked-open window.
There’s a line dividing / the dark outside / the light
in this room. The reflections / in a fogged-up pane of glass.

 

 
 

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