In February

— Heather Swan

Sunlight spills across the room,
sharpening the leaves
of the oxalis, turning dust
to luster, pulling the
shadows long. Light the
color of the honey we pulled,
poured straight from the comb,
then licked from each other’s hands.
The outside is always slipping in,
the way your gaze enters me
again, spills and spreads, and changes
everything. Everything.


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