electric fingers

November 24, 2019



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”






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).



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