From the spring issue

Redeye by Gabriella M. Fee

The tambourine, the chorister, the rain
Against the urgent palms of leaves; the swell
Of something coming to a boil; the train
That splits the ancient town; the living smell
Of circumstance and soil, of cardamom
Arranging in your curls – I cannot slow
This continental drift. I have no sun
To make our days align, no moon to tow.
Evening closes cleanly as a yawn
And sets all gears in spin for those who sleep.
What clever net will gather in the dawn
And make the open morning glories speak?
The bruise left by the absence of your hand
Is wide as ocean separating land.


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