CREATIVE WRITER & Creative writing teacher
R A C H E L A. L E V I N E
BETWEEN US
This won't do for much,
this short breath,
this small pond of ourselves.
There is only between us what there can be between people;
air and fingers.
Between any of us; hesitation,
then the opening of fingers and legs, like Spring.
Between us there is so little;
a thin beam of light.
There is so much;
and ribbon of eyes.
FRIGHT WIG
You come home to linger
like a tugboat in the mist in New York City.
I know if I cry in your arms
there are more arms waiting,
your arms waiting like desperation;
a red fright wig in the corner.
You come home to linger
like a band of smoke in the sun
in a dirty grocery store in New York City,
where the lawns have no bones,
there are trains running empty,
children in dry fountains.
You come home to linger
like a boy with a small snail,
like the moon with a wave licking it,
like yourself, out there in the harbor,
in the mist, in New York City.