Sandra Marchetti
Silver Wheel and lock,
your irises drop
into mine and sink.
My skin a new bird,
white in the morning-bright
and newly downy.
Hands against
a shoulder scrape,
then release between
an arm and under.
I pull up toward
your eye;
the triangles of our bodies
lie, then slide.
A light writes out
from us and dies
where we cut
our shadow.
Oh hum me to a crest,
so we buzz with each
other’s blood:
a cicada’s clean song
of shedding.