Amy Watkins



We flew from the selfish wick, its flicker
meant to call us home like pigeons or bees
to nest, to hive, to roost, but we wandered,
wayward girls seeking honey, honey, honey.
My mama asked, “Where you girls been?” Just out.
Just walking.
And sometimes I wondered if
she knew that every walk in moonlight led
to the same warm clearing where we first went
all the way. I wanted to get lost
like Chet Baker, to drift through counterfeit
snowflakes, white myrtle blossoms obscuring
our faces like blizzards or bridal veils.
I would have walked all night with you, the call
home far off and lost in your breath in my ear.

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