what else to start fires with? I’ve been busy
dropping every other word to echo your accent.
busy looking down at the river instead
of out. Sometimes I forget
that you can have turtles, too. brushfires,
orange skies. Railroads and love confessions
and metaphors.
Later, I ask you why we remember the rain
when we hadn’t seen it. I guess I have been running
guess I only care for the awnings shielding me
from it. you good? We stayed in the back that night.
what else? I’ve been brushstroke-oriented
since I met you. You grin in every shade of blue. Photos
with you in it that blur your face. I hold down,
your laugh shades the background all sorts of hues.
What else? your voice lilts, lights. Like a name
can be an apocalypse. A figure swooping bluebird-like
hill-landing. I should’ve known you were serious
because you kept holding the flash and didn’t once ask us
to take one of you in return. we have so little time. you hold affection
in tangerine segments, tell me you understand the metaphors.
the humidity. breath in your throat. I move gently,
hazy, wear complementary colors.
Noralee Zwick is a student and poet based in the Bay Area, California. A California Arts Scholar and Iowa Young Writers Studio alum, their work can be found in Aster Lit, Prairie Home Magazine, and Polyphony Lit, among others.