By: Rachel Cruea
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.
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.