lessons

self, sticky in sweat with my frizzed-out hair.
the soft part of my arm. electric-blue toenails.
my mother’s pair of denim shorts. this summer
I learned to ripen an avocado, felt beautiful like Eve,
also learned that birds will die from oil smoke. who
invented this drink? I think the salt on the rim
is a metaphor. I want to ride around in your car.
let’s call this the summer of mirror neurons
and drive to the beach. this is a song for God
watching. I thought I’d be married by now.

Spring

I don’t know, I want
a baby. Your mouth
and ears—
wondering why
the present isn’t enough.
Here are the blossoms
shot out by rain,
the president reinstating
the firing squad. There is no word
to describe my longing,
but a few words being
a mountain turned silver
in sunlight
and I cried
like gunfire.

Basilica

I want to tell you a story,
but I don’t know how
things will end. I don’t know
why it’s a minor basilica
nor why sometimes I want
to rip my arm open
with a knife. Anyway
what if I’d bottled the wind
skidding off the Seine,
gray everywhere
and with conviction?
Those saints shivering
along the tower,
at least one of them
John. If I could do it all again
I would turn this
into a question. You?
Holding an umbrella.

The Edge

We will go to the edge of the fence, edge
of the fringe, edge of the clearing, edge
of the blown-out property, edge
of the eye, edge of the nail, edge
of the cliff, edge of the sea, edge
of the dream, edge
of the edge, edge
of the feeling,
the feeling of warmth,
the feeling of light
is where I’m taking us,
somewhere bright.

Leah Muncy is a writer from the Sierra Nevada foothills. Her work has appeared in HAD, Stone Circle Review, The Skybridge Review, The Passionfruit Review, West 10th, and others. She lives in Brooklyn with her cat, Pony, and works as an art director.