by Sofia Bagdade
All the pictures warp
blue with life sentences in
cobweb boxes—
dig and dig, our knuckles,
every mote clings close to
Fire Island in the rain,
gelid until touched again.
Hot with dust and memory,
I remember the straw hat like a far freight train—
just like how you press against me
kneading your hand to my nape,
let me also be alive to return to.
Maybe we fold in manila envelopes
never knowing hands or place,
pray to revisit, formless.
Quite the smile, gap-toothed, sepia
rare to find you here alone—
sacred intimacy is you and me
turning pointer fingers over pictures
until the edges fold,
visit me like this—
won’t you?
X-ray my suntanned bones in an attic,
yellow with unripe visions
zero, the gray matter, one, our palms
Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
Emerge Literary Journal 