I was told there would be kissing. Enough so to make up for
all that had been lacking. My mouth sprouted sumac. Not
teeth. Not tongue. Just a name for crimson flowers
overwintering in wine country. I lipped my mug, you to
yours.
I was told there would be conversation so I stashed my words
in conservation. Instead we halved a crepuscular life: you
livened at dusk after my stirrings at dawn—a choreographed
stutter between the bed, the map, and the beached lake bench.
I knew to expect no sun. But the blunting.
Wind-knocked I drove gutless past vines grown over ground
lost in The Fire. I did not worry, I understand geography—
followed the shoreline back to lessons in geometry: vertices
replaced by fragments in parallel,
dislocated by a latitude of 50.
Somewhere north of here a cow moose is stamping at her
yearling to get the fuck away right now. Or else. Don’t make
me really hurt you.
Somewhere a birch is tearing herself apart.
“kiss” image by Flickr user Robert
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Sarah Aronson is a candidate with the University of Montana’s MFA program. Her work has appeared in Cirque, Zymbol, St. Petersburg Review, Psychology Tomorrow Magazine, and other publications.