Mottetto

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 Twitter.