In the Nighttime, Open Palms
here your wet mouth and the heave
of our pulses echoing in our eardrums,
here through the front door the cloudless
blinking sky over the lawn where
we are kissing, here the milky ring
of a single floodlight around which
the endless world swells against its confines:
here is a valley of stars –
here is a forest of galaxies –
here is the ceiling of heaven and
us crashing headlong through it –
here is your shoelace, untied,
trapped under my boot.
S. Cristine is a poet living and writing in Los Angeles. Her preoccupations include the passage of time, double-trunked trees, and why bottles of honey are always sticky no matter what. She has lived in Boston and London, and is currently working on her first chapbook.