Topography | SARAH SCHULZ

Topography

SARAH SCHULZ | VERMONT I. Draught drains the September landscape to shades of dust. We search the rocky creek beds for hidden water. Suddenly

you smile. Tiny rivers crease the skin around your eyes when you spot a forgotten stream

II. What is this bruise on your bicep? This storm cloud of gray blue purple the size of my thumb, changing shape and color each time I spy it What caused this imprint? This painted painful pleasure? What greedy hand or mouth gave it life?

III. Your collarbone turns to crater catches rain that patters through the tent when we foolishly forgo the fly. I wake to wetness, your soft flannel damp.

Even still I press my nose to your chest brim of bone pooling deep shadows I yearn to sip

IV. At first I think the moth that settles on your big toe is a fleck of ash as we dry our feet by the fire Its tiny legs tangle with wisps of hair, inquisitive antennae flick the air, proboscis questions skin.

V. We drive east fleeing the setting sun, the mountains disappearing behind us, your left hand steady on the steering wheel, your right resting on my thigh Curiously my fingers climb the ridges of your knuckles like the range we promise to return to another day