You turn your back to the grass
that’s just burst into flame.

Your lover drives away
in a Honda Civic, rattling.

You stand in the dining room
behind red curtains and those egg shells—
maybe the way they feel in your hand—

bewitch you.  You remove every stitch 
of nail and hair, take down eyelashes, 
unwrap your shoulder blades
and rise tall and splayed by the window.

And
you’re so foolish.
You pick up the skin of your hand
quickly slip it back on, 
turn and touch those 
jutting shoulder blades—
still hollowed blue with cold.
 

 Emily Wall

This I now remember: lying on a bunk 
and watching your hand fall, lit by streetlight— 
silver rings and lank fingers. 
I almost kissed it 

The world is blind to your luminosity. 
So went the first line of a poem I read to you 
beneath the frozen arch. 
When I finished you looked away, 
cracked your chemistry book: 
you knew that I loved you. 

But to me it was a secret 
even on the day you crashed 
my sister's wedding, 
dashing in black and drunk, 
slung over the piano bar. 
I held you as we descended 
in the glass elevator. 

Only recently did I learn 
the silent code 
of your violet mascara, 
your naked back 
and glass-thowing rages. 

Only recently did I realize that 
you taught me to love 
if only through a slow burn: 
unwitting desire. 

Alexis Easley