[NEXT TO HER LIGHT LAYS] by Vanessa Borjon

 

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.

 

 

 

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