by Tammy Greenwood
He leans in to kiss her lips, the way
a woman wants to be leaned in to.
His fingertips set against her chin –
not to restrain, but lift her weary eyes
so she might see the moon and sun
sharing the morning sky. His eyes shone
of lowered ladders reaching through
iris nights, where the sounds of
harmonies and mandolins fold her limbs
in front of her, like legs of a newborn foal.
As he helps her up, they reach into a broken
grocery cart for what they chose to keep –
two backpacks each, her a rolled bed mat secured
with tattered rope, him a wheelless bike frame,
balanced on his shoulders.
They disappear down the dry riverbank
carrying their discarded, as the moonlight
fades against unforgiving skies.
Poet and Printmaker, Tammy Greenwood is a Louisiana native residing in California. Her work is heavily influenced by the varying landscape and culture of both states she calls home. Since graduating from California State University, San Bernardino, she continues her studies while working on her upcoming book of poetry. Her work appears in or is forthcoming in Rust & Moth, Orange Blossom Review, San Pedro River Review, Under the Radar, California Quarterly, Journal of Undiscovered Poets and elsewhere.
Emerge Literary Journal 