I held you here, between my teeth.
I slid you under my tongue, safe
from words denoting Time. I imagined
we were god’s own quiet fricatives,
& when He held us in his cheek,
He could feel our singing.
He could feel our singing
as we tossed pennies into the fountain,
rubbing emotion from palms
on denim-clad thighs.
Your delicate horseshoes, your sweet tooth,
& wishes I made still stain my hands.
Wishes I made stain my hands.
Plum & sweet well water &
knees deciding your ribcage,
I conceded the peach bud,
All wooly igneous and milk.
The sky’s big fonts peeling
skin off the water. Our tongues
You were under a long time.
The lakebed was a rocking pelvis.
The lakebed was a rocking pelvis,
a caldera furred like a womb,
sand-drawn mouths on every stone.
I’ll admit your holy
was the thirstiest I’ve ever been.
The most honeyed, most spilt,
I’m honeyed and spilt,
rearranging the bones
of the lovers of Pompeii in my head.
Pretenses of holding:
her kneecaps in his lower vertebrae;
carpals scattered in her ribcage.
Scattered in my ribcage,
fence posts forgiving
all the sides they separate—.
grief is not belied by joy.
I won’t choose between buttercup & bane,
nux & claritas.
about the writer
Laura Page is the author of epithalamium, selected by Darren C. Demaree as the winner of the Sundress Publications 2017 chapbook contest. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rust + Moth, Crab Creek Review, The Fanzine, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Human/Kind, Bone Bouquet, The Hunger, Maudlin House, and other publications. Page, also a visual artist, lives in the Pacific Northwest, and is founding editor of the poetry journal Virga.