Seven times I forget to tell you
I love you
because a hair has bent over so far
it's growing back into my skin.
I slowly pick a scab on my face
during your story about work.
I joke that my body is
its own separate entity, that it's
me and my body. But it's you and me
and my body, and
too much of the time,
you and my body alone, and
god knows where I've disappeared to.
lives in Burlington, VT and is editor in chief of
Mud Season Review
. Her work has appeared in
Pittsburgh Poetry Review
, and others. You can find her on twitter
Site powered by Weebly. Managed by