Haze

Zoe crepp CONTRIbuTER

There’s some kind of mask covering your face, But I can see that bright flush creeping beneath the powder When I tell you where I think we should go. Those baby doll eyes, all droopy 1930s— Complete with mascara-darkened lashes, batting themselves at me, And that pouty bottom lip sliping and sliding over mine.

You’re hesitating, waiting for the permission That you know I’ll give When the pink clouds clear Confirming your desires.

Nesting

sam rosati martin FEATuRES EDITOR

Watch my eyes shimmer —in the ice with you. —I want your song, your singing. Turn the sun off, tenderize [me], lay your voices on my stomach.

Feed me branches and twigs— splinters—