Split

Wednesday, June 2, 2021

In our kitchen white cabinets bow to orange hues.
The setting sun never knocks
it rolls in as if it has claim to my dusty shelves.
The sunlight splits your face
into worlds of dark and light.
As I run my finger over your cheek,
I can enter each of them.
The dark:
made of a long cool howl.
I dip my toes into a creek of marbled chills.
The bank coated in fog,
grasps my bare arm.
If I look through the marshes,
will I find you or your hauntings?
By the slip of my index,
rivers hold honey in their palms.
I cup my hands to taste the sweet syrup.
One sip and I am drunk on earth’s touch.

This piece was published by Vita Brevis Literature.

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