by Coco Jeannine

I remember laying your body to rest.

The thick scent of a pine box;

your brown eyes blinking up at me.

 

Brushing your hair back,

I couldn’t help but think of the clouds

we saw over the Seine—

 

the stars lost sight

of us behind their shroud

and we laughed.

 

The gods could not touch

your reflection, still it shimmers

on the water’s edge floating

away under the bridge.

 

You reach out and pull me under

with a moss-covered hand.

 

The things we have seen.

 

Let’s sit plucking birds

from the sky.

Let’s lean into the mouths

of wolves.

Let’s lick the jam from our fingers

and capture laughter in a bottle of  

sweet red wine.

 

Let me crawl under you

and breathe in the scent.

Pull the strings of the stitching

holding you together.

 

Let me unravel in the hollow ground.

I won’t reach for the light.