The inch worm in the window sill, curling

In a bank of light. Snow-soaked porch steps,


Old pinewood floors. The neck, the back –

My body bends into another body. Firelight


Bends around his shoulders, a half-moon

Around stars, around the tops of trees.


We are both the driver on dark highways

Breaking for bends in the road, and the river


Rushing over rocks toward the bend ahead.

What bends short, bends long –


Doesn’t break. Neck of tulip, waning

Clothes rod. And, yes, the rules.


Because the heart is not straight and narrow.

It curves, sometimes splinters into tributaries,


Carrying all the waste of a community of two:

Words like dead fish floating to the surface,


Gills closed, eyes fixed. But the mouth opens

Like a fresh bruise – purple, bell-shaped –


And you forget yourself, your heart

A wire hanger bending in someone’s hands.

Words: Leslie St. John

Instagram: @proseandposes
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