It is a mountain, love. Your breath caught in my mouth: the wings of birds, beating. The pressure of your fingers on my wrist: ambulation, poultice. Needle in my spine, thin air. The abrupt departure of flight: a space to fold into.
02/20/2011
Posted on 05/28/2011Copyright © 2024 Alli Martel
This poem trembles with ache. It makes me want to lick my lips, suck in my breath sharply... Well done.
