write along my spine
with your fine finger tip pen.
fold me up neatly
into a dinner napkin, a crane, a boat.
cast me off
into a white blanket of you
your skin
quieter than snow,
drenched heavily
in the beating glow
from beneath the shell
of a looming soul.
prop this window half open
just to lick it closed
locked & tight
refusing to release the hot air
of the woven basket of my body:
knots & lace,
hair & knees—
an archipelago to be sent off
into grey
until one day
it lingers back to your snow hands
& what of the mittens you left at home
you’d forgotten about—
they warm you less
than what we started
& are here with.
About the author:
stacey is a native of portland, oregon. there she studies english & linguistics while working at an arts & crafts store. she enjoys turquoise things & would like to become multilingual someday.
where are you?