Poetry: “habits”


(Joey Lorant/Amherst Wire)

The Durfee Conservatory



your skin smells like honey.

freckles and scars create a perfect map, drifting from collarbones to stomach

gently up the rungs of the ribcage and down both arms

my fingers notice this for the first time over and over


we remind each other of beautiful things.


your nose whistles and your lips rest soft against my cheek

kiss me here.                             and here and here.


my heart races

your eyes are copper wire

and your hair, too.


receive my body and blood


you begin to taste like fruit leather and tea and sunshine

even though the shades are drawn

and there is never hunger here


you begin to taste like the only warmth on the 10th of october

and probably also on the day after that.


my hands are turning to scissors and

I have an anxious habit of clenching my fists

don’t leave me here                                or here or here.


you begin to taste like religion

it is terrifying.

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