AS SATURNINE IN SPRING

LAUREN W. WESTERFIELD

 
 

       With the quick sight of your neck. With lead beneath my tongue,
       and browning air plants on the windowsill. With Persian
       cucumbers. Without obsidian. Without my mother’s worry
       over Jesus, over one loose breastbone button on my blouse.
       Stevie Nicks. Paper cuts. Rust-red iron-nickel at my core.
       With hunger—for a black-lipped shadow, or for six more months
       before the leaves will turn rust-red and render me invisible.
       Without this season, greening in the sun (as in: sun-blaze white,
       and how it waits—an unborn canker sore). White sheets,
       and how they smell. Without the smell of you. Without
       your toothbrush. With violence yellowing my fingertips.
       With this ammonia hum. Charcoal clouds I’d like to eat.

 
 

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