qarrtsiluni

by Laura E. Davis

When my feet become rubber tires
spinning between seconds, I repent.
Sing the human measurements of time:
dusk, a jiffy, a teacup of fallen oranges.

As soon as my knees squawk
like winter’s arthritic branches,
I rise and dance the green-shooted
onion or the white-fuzzed pears.

After I no longer feel the warmth
of fluorescent light bulbs or laptop glow,
I kiss bugs and their small homes:
driveway cracks & candy wrappers.

When my blood cannot hear the sweet
spider call, I walk outside, dip my finger
into frozen dirt, drink the worms sieving
through the earth’s brown cake.

Once I mistake the rush of late November
for the smell of bathroom cleaner, I play
the loamy musk of millipede, Jerusalem
artichokes, atmosphere, ashes, pinecones.

After I darken windows & draw blinds,
I taste the maple’s electric green circuits,
pull hair from the brush, finger tomato
seeds and garlic skin opaque as milk.

When I taste callused hand and cold
dust on my tongue, I sing drops of sweat
round as an ocean wave and warm
as the white mouth of the moon.

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Laura E. Davis was born and raised in Pittsburgh, the City of Champions, where she earned her MFA from Chatham University. Her poems have been featured on the radio show Prosody, hosted by Jan Beatty, and published in print and online journals including Pear Noir!, Redactions, Splinter Generation, Rougarou, and The Ante Review, among others. She is the Founding Editor of Weave Magazine and she blogs at Dear Outer Space. She lives in San Francisco with her partner, Sal.