AUGUST 13, 2020, BY SARAH MARQUEZ
You look for me in the earthquake,
tremble of clasped hands, in the fire —
what is left burning, tingling lips.
A smug look that ends in what?
I am nervous. I am becoming
the person who says Darling,
and sleeps during the day,
but only in your bed, wrapped
in scent of tobacco and your
thick arms. When you tell me
after a kiss that I turn you on,
I know what pretty feels like —
being exposed, the missing color
in your chameleon eyes. Expanded,
unable to grow apart. Enhanced,
I turn dull with your secret going,
my small whispering voice: not yet.
I am reckless or indifferent
to consequence. I make plans.
We engage the marble alter,
hand in hand, forget sacrifices
are made there and my God
never forgets. Today, I wear
your body like a shield.
Protect my bones, twenty-five
years of lonely, this shadow
called woman, tearing away.
Sarah Marquez (she/her) is based in Los Angeles and has work published and forthcoming in various journals, including Human/Kind Press, Kissing Dynamite, Sandy River Review, The New Southern Fugitives, and Twist in Time Magazine. When not writing, she can be found reading for The Winnow and Random Sample Review, sipping coffee, or tweeting @Sarahmarissa338.