Photo by Tobias Greitzke on Unsplash
electric fingers
I’m sweating honey and I don’t know
how to unlove you. your skin hovering
over mine like angels in the cold, like
if we touch it’d be lightning strikes and
moon-splinterings. and at night you trace
the wind from my hair, the baby’s breath
growing out of my amygdala. you cry
at all the wrong scenes and I wrap myself
in softness of your making. I glow pink[1] like
punch-drunk jupiter, your smile hanging
above me in the dark. you’re grains
of sugar left behind in abandoned bakeries.
you have six words for sunday morning
and they all sound like hummingbirds
and sweet mumblings and lavender paint
just shy of drying. your waist is as home
as a burial. you look twice before leaving,
but not before jumping. your hand hovers
from my cheek like this city might explode
at our touch. I guess it’s a sacrifice
I’m willing to make.
~ Wanda Deglane
[1] the phrase “I glow pink” comes from Mitski’s “Pink in the Night”
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Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, Drunk Monkeys, Yes Poetry, and elsewhere. Wanda is the author of Rainlily (2018), Lady Saturn (Rhythm & Bones, 2019), Honey-Laced Garbage Dreams (Ghost City Press, 2019), Venus in Bloom (Porkbelly Press, 2019), and Bittersweet (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2019).
