view index

 
 

 

by Elena Botts

the quickening
in an upper arm, barest singing anklebone
in the midst of taller grass when the birds come, his dead mother's
voice unaided as light tides from the moon.
midnight in your eyes.
another blossoming and we are undone.
love lies so softly sleeping in all places at once and really cannot be mentioned. 

 

Site Map