by Wren Donovan

Last night you told me trivia in bed.  It’s one hundred thousand light years across the Milky Way.  Two hundred trillion human years to escape beyond the curved edge of the infinite (apparently the infinite has edges).  After failing to imagine the starry swimming pool of god that seems to never end but somehow does, I thought of ever-tinier things, like pebbles and poppy-seeds and rainbow flecks of beach-glass ground to sand, and your breath moving hairs on the back of my neck.  Even smaller now, the memory of your breath on my neck, warm and then cool evaporation.

Wren Donovan lives in Tennessee. Her poetry appears or is upcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Harpy Hybrid Review, Green Ink Poetry, Dillydoun Review, Cauldron Anthology, and elsewhere. She studied classics, literature, and folklore at Millsaps College, UNC-Chapel Hill, and University of Southern Mississippi. She reads Tarot and talks to cats.

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