by Susan McDonough-Hintz
Goodbye filled our mouths and lingered,
diffuse on the tongues, swirling.
This morning I reached for a
tube of toothpaste and my
neck hairs lifted like eyelids,
my nipples stiff as peaks, nostrils
flared by the sudden smell of you,
but you weren’t there.
I was alarmed.
The light was changing.
Halfway up the mountain
night falls. I dig my bed
in dirt, cover myself with leaves,
and sleep, awake unearthed and
well bruised. Jagged rocks,
out of my way.
I am alive and all of you is surge.
And the flash.