Prowl me gently while I excavate
my smallest bones from the wine
sodden skin which slithers down
your ribs like satin when we’re close
enough to hold a two-finger flame
between us.

Pining with needles; splinters
in our bad knees, you suckle
at poppy veins and fever me
violet, breathing a flute into my
windpipe, a siren of prayer
resounds.

Derelict with sickled ankles, you
carve past the ice to the friction
press your palms against my blacktop
and singe yourself longingly,
you christen ourselves the last
known miracle.

Knuckles of your thumbs nudge my
wings into emergence, you braid
your trust, a silver twine into the vine
down my back, and nestle sprigs of
rosemary in my fractures, calm as
moonless tides.

Sarah Pobuda is a current MA/MFA student at DePaul University in the Creative Writing and Publishing program. Her poems have been published in several print and online publications, including They Call Us Zine, Furrow Magazine, and The Cauldron.