Poetry by Millicent Sharman
Art by Adela Lynge
on certain days you hold my hand a little tighter than usual. this
I always remember, though there is much I tend to forget.
years ago, I read a poem in which Neruda describes the moon as
teeth against the gums of the night. in the night, my soul
becomes teeth against the purchase of my bathroom mirror. I tug
at uneven locks; put my eye daringly close to the glass,
bask in an eyeball’s rotundity. I feel the emptiness of
my palms, and question why every dream I have I soon forget.
that day on the bus, your hand closed tightly around mine again.
I don’t remember why or when, just the
squeeze
dance
jump
of a heartbeat along our skin. I never knew whose it was,
I only knew the joy of observing this empyrean
moment of softness; you were beautiful and warm.