By stephanie roberts
You let Autumn touch you
but only above the waist
because the moon
is losing his heat.
If you were being honest, you’d confess
this makes him no less desirable.
He still rises amber
aglow inside with waxing,
under fall, groping
for the knowledge of poets.
This is definitely a case of
too many hands makes for hard work.
Stop touching my body and Touch,
from the same bright opening
—bourbon lips caramel and fire
at distance.
stephanie roberts won first prize for The Sixty-Four: Best Poets of 2018, Black Mountain Press. Born in Central America, she grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and, from her wee Québec town, supports compassion-based society. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry collection rushes from the river disappointment, a Two Sylvias Press Wilder Poetry Prize finalist, is forthcoming with McGill-Queen’s University Press, April 2020. Twitter @ringtales.
Website: https://oceansandfire.com/