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
rapture—
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 brain—or other people’s brains. She’s not too particular on that score.
