by Danielle Rose
First drawn to hard objects like the formation of slate. Then unfolding like light becomes touch. Once I watched a boy disappear under the surface a lake. One great breath and he became so distant. Did he wonder, in that moment, what would remain? A pile of possibilities like waking up: The way light becomes touch; the way touch becomes light again. I am left with conditionals demanding attention, like if the boy remained hidden or if attraction follows desire. All these questions to determine something so simple, something questioning like petrichor and then the rain. Not the boy but the question of what the boy will become, someday.
Danielle Rose is the author of AT FIRST & THEN. Her recent work can be found in Palette Poetry, Hobart Pulp, Pithead Chapel & The Shallow Ends.
Emerge Literary Journal 