she is not watching

Alexa Becker, Poetry Editor

everything is slow
tiptoeing around
myself (the tea steeps the
dog sighs the
floor groans the fruit
ripens and rots perpetually
atop the counter)

your scent hits
me
from another life that i’ve molded
out of stiff, dry earth
with equally chapped hands
i (can see the dirt
underneath your fingernails) feel (like
the apples on the orchid
fl
-oor) your laughter
slip through my fingers quick yet
gentle sub
-tle
like the lily (you held) petal floating
down
down
down
down
from
it(‘)s exhausted
stem

pushed this way
and that
by the timeless wind