a distancing kind of love
mark the year with postage stamps and rose water, pulling together
the corners of love like a paper swan, as if it can exist on display, a
vanity set handed down over generations; a silver comb tarnishing
over the hours stolen away.
yesterday I broke a stick of cinnamon and the sky itself split open
in a proposal of rain, wind swept fields bending beneath the bulk
of the horizon that aches so persistently. We would have danced
together beneath split heavens if you had been here-
bookmarking the pages of months with northern winds pulled from
the woods, snatches of pine needles and wild moss collecting in
your hands. if we lived by the sea we might have filled our lungs
with salt taken from frothing waves, stealing away brittle shells
in between. instead we have settled for exhaust pipes and long roads like
black satin ribbons, gleaming under layers of ice stretched into skin;
fields dotted with farmhouses washed in shades of white, bathed in
a golden veil of setting sun. I taste salt regardless.
Rachel Small writes in Ottawa. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines, including ottawater, many gendered mothers, The Hellbore, The Shore, and other places. She was the recipient of honourable mention for the John Newlove Poetry Award for her poem "garbage moon and feminist day". You can find her on twitter @rahel_taller.
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