By: Rachel Cruea

 

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The roof of your mouth
is an actual roof, beneath it,
              a house’s laughter.
Reach your hand through
              the window that is not
              a window but a honeycomb.
              Pull back your wrist
              and interrupt me.
In this taut, shivering
              daylight we look
              directly at one another.
              You wear your whistling coat,
                           a tangy murmur
              in the snowdrift’s gladness.
              You’ve been inside me
              more than I have.
              I haven’t guessed
              your citrus reach, the endless
              radio medicine tuning
              our knit & wave.
Persist with me, here,
              where winter’s gloss
              reflects two palms as a middle.

 

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Rachel Cruea is an M.F.A candidate in poetry at the University of Colorado-Boulder. She is originally from Findlay, Ohio. Along with serving as the assistant managing editor of Timber, she is a poetry editor for GASHER, and has previously published her work in editions of Jet Fuel Review, The Pinch, The Adroit Journal, Birds Piled Loosely, and elsewhere.