Impressionable by Norah Priest

We have made
our own breathless stratosphere:
stained glass and
satin sunbeams—
a house too full of love
to stand.

You sway—
a dancer in my Degas gaze—
and then

you slip

towards the dapple-darkened depths
and drag me in

to ravel roots into a nest
and revel
in the hungry tendrils—
to howl
in half-drowned

Monet’s pond was rotting too.

Norah Priest does not drink tea, burn sage, or dye her hair, but it’d be pretty cool if she did. She currently resides in the American South, and she writes as a means of dissecting her own brainor other people’s brains. She’s not too particular on that score.



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