She meets you down on the left
side of moonshine, threads that
gleam lapis filling the shuttles in
her hands. Your brass arpeggio
bones are shining and the grass
is wild, warm. Her laugh rises
frail in the night, beats like blue
bird wings, makes you eat your
fear of pillowed sounds. Lean
into it. Swallow her thin chortles
and let them throb against your
bare-beveled ribs from the inside.
Suzanne Marie Hopcroft
About the author:
Suzanne Marie Hopcroft is a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at Yale University and writes from New York City, where she also teaches composition at Hostos Community College. Suzanne’s poetry is forthcoming or has recently appeared in Breakwater Review, The Coachella Review, decomP, The Catalonian Review, Spork, and PANK Magazine.
