Amanecer

of thick, glistening ink, then find the notebook underneath my pillow and nurture the unflowered bouquets of my confession with her daily rays, closed cosmos laid out in lines that blur together, page on page, word on word, eating at the meanings they find

intertwined. And though I won’t know the estrella’s flavor, the riddle of milk hidden under inedible skin on an archipelago of sequestered stars two thousand miles from an answer, I savor the seeds of her fresh-ink heart, which fill the distance with flowers, and fruits, and all the unearthly delights of the sky, as dawn preserves them for our next night together, ripening untethered to the tree.

Poetry Steven O. Young, Jr.

Redford, Michigan, USA

I want to wake to your eyes,

not to the sight of daylight’s dazzle free from your adjusted vision, not to your breath forged through mellifluous snores forgiven by mint, not to your sweat pearled under cotton’s comfort absolved with soap,

nor to the scene where your filmy lids shy from break of day, or where your toes curl against the cold in accidental exile, or where your ears flare from out your hair attendant to the pillow’s whispers; no,

I want to wake to your eyes as we rise in each other’s sun, accompanied by the crystals crusted to our ducts, dried rivulets of drool flaking clay from our lips;

I want to wake to your eyes before our night is blinked away so you can see my dream squared in your reflection before dawn’s rushing tide of light sweeps you back under its surface.