Next to her light lays
on my body, light breaks
from the window, reflects onto her back where the moth sits, crooked antennae and
she outlines the fuzzy yellow wing on my forearm. Remember when? and I say
this was all I thought about
when were apart, droplets of water clung to my eyelashes and made everything seem
as if I were looking through a glass of honey. The passing cars,
others walking home, maybe in another life
you are not a secret I keep under each eyelid.
She says oh, and we fold our bodies into each other, like a cootie catcher
always brought back to life in the cradle of palms.
Vanessa Borjon is a queer latinx living and working in Chicago. She received her BA in poetry at Columbia College in 2015 and every now and again self-publishes zines.
Back to Issue 1>