Sandra Marchetti


Silver

Wheel and lock,
your irises drop
into mine and sink.
My skin a new bird,
white in the morning-bright
and newly downy.
 
Hands against
a shoulder scrape,
then release between
an arm and under.
I pull up toward
your eye;
 
the triangles of our bodies
lie, then slide.
A light writes out
from us and dies
where we cut
our shadow.
 
Oh hum me to a crest,
so we buzz with each
other’s blood:
a cicada’s clean song
of shedding.







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