I wish to see the sunflowers turn at dawn, hear the cicadas
and toads hiding in tidal pools, all singing for you, of you.
I long for the orange tree’s perfume in your hair. I need
the whispering, wild vanilla to wrest my fever away,
to sweat out the kilometers between me and marble.
I crave the Mediterranean: salt on your collarbone, adorning
your skin, dulcet and dolcetto. I desire more than autumn
in New York has to offer—raspberries by the river to dye
my mournings and nights. I tear into freshwater, chasing
your reflection. I cannot hear the pine needles rasp. I dream
of your velvet affection as a doe stands on the bank, watching,
in silence. She leaves me behind as I scour my body
with handfuls of fruit. Stems of ungifted roses float out
of reach, past other lassoed deer like me, now drowning.
Read more from Issue No. 27 or share on Facebook and Twitter.