shall become as

you put this pen

in my hand and you
take the pen from 
         my hand. the night
before the full moon

            the moon seems

full. what is missing

is a dark hungry

            sickle, the sliver

of shadow eating

            us up inside. after

the mountains breathe

their mint-and-sorrow

            green against the long

summer sky, they burst

            into hot october

laughter, lighting

the horizon with citrus,

            rust, and blood. you

put this knife in my

           

            hand. we pull. we

meet as oceans come

together, heaving

            against and clinging

across our salt watery

            boundary. we approach

endlessly like two rails

of one track, tied

            in a parallel that

promises our eyes to

            merge, someplace far

off in the distance. you

put this feather in my

            palm. my fingers

close around flight.

Evie Shockley