by Jillian Carson
I go back to where pale yellow blood
builds in domed cheeks,
swollen Asian pears dappled with
the afterbirth of a dawn that drags its feet.
Amongst the colossal yolks betrothed to branches,
I watch them grow into their goosebumps,
complexions raising like braille to meet me.
Pigment has been strained out of their skin by
dynasties of palms dusted with desire.
I’ve never been touched so much that my flesh fades.
A colony of micro-moons fingered by Midas
awaits in the doorframe of day.
I do not look like them yet
but I could,
but I could.