Emily Blair


taut as a fiddle string, guitar twang, reverberate, make celestial music, baby
I need some water
and it is brought to me, miraculous

once every few moments one of us thinks so loudly the other hears
I love you
turning my chest and cheeks disturbingly, boiled-crawdad red,
and you’re the butter, and I’m ready

what if we had even once
seen women in bed
in ways not seditious or cavernous, not waiting for man and his seed;
what if I’m not a field for plowing but
ivy grown over a winter bathroom window so
the first time you dare raise the panes
for a false-spring heat wave
you see me: hopeful, radiant, naïve,
having grown in a not-so-cold Southern winter
to surprise you 

you love plants, collect plants,
those hanging and reaching and longing plants so
you must love me
as I rise up,
close enough to blister
even this shy skin

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