By: Josie Rozell

Recognition

Nothing fancier
than the sound of your own blood.
Take your hand
and touch yourself;

go on—

what you feel
is your own skin; the kin you bear
day after day.
Look at it.

A million shades of sun
in every corner. That vacuum
is a myth.

Feel the crookedness
as the thumb becomes wrist,
as the skin folds
into elbow, as the knot of shoulder
climbs into neck.

Relish in the absence of plastic.

You, too,
are like all of them.

###

How to Linger

Black t-shirt kisses
bald knees

calloused toes caress
the grass

the wheels of the bike
against the tree

stark
against a sun which sets

into
the ripples of the canal.

###

Remainders

If anything is left,
let it be.

Let it be like waves
like rolling, ferocious, temperament
unleashed, selected forehead fury.
Like the dance of the sand
in the cracks of toes, alone and left
to their own devices, rendering skin
smooth and fresh.

If anything is left,
let it be. Let it be
the end of the novel, that rests
in your lap, tickled by wind,
the pages curling and sweeping
against your bald knees. Let it be
unfinished,
doomed forever to longing.