Under the Sycamore
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Inspired by poetry from women of the ninth century court in Imperial Japan, Under the Sycamore, is a collection of short poems that speaks to passion, desire, and longing in the setting of modern day.
I remember the party where we skulked off to the woods. You made me turn away as you hiked your dress. I could still hear you. The postman weeps at my mailbox. I go to him, only to discover your letter holding goodbye in its stamp. When you first kissed me I remembered how spring bloomed in Kansas and flat assumed disguise by fanning flaming fields of sunflowers. Your mouth is soft like ice cream I want
like to fuck you until we didn’t know each other— each other’s body from our own. I’m in love with you like the simplicity of birds— who stagger in the air over streets where their mate, killed. You’ve gained fifteen pounds and your body knows I love you more. I’ve never touched your hair but how I want it to cascade across my shoulders. I’ve fallen into your eyes, sat on a bar stool, spent time there
cooking mean me cutting my finger until doctors stitch me, your name a tattoo on my index. I take your dress off with my eyes. You whisper dirty words until we laugh our way to the full moon and the car. You take my clothes off with your eyes. You’re married to me with your thoughts. I undress in front of a tone-deaf crowd desperate for Karaoke, and you, desperate, to see me tuned in. I think of
sycamore. All the leaves fell though it was spring. I loved you in a thunderstorm only to find out the forecast was clear. I tasted your hair as if dinner proved not enough. I heard your voice in my piano so I kept playing until daybreak. Your lips, richly red. I’m willing to pay a ransom to spend the night with them. These endless dark nights the moon hollowed out mark dark days to follow.
the banjo tonight and embarrassed myself, but you hummed through me and I thought I could pick up anything. I visit you on the farm to find you in overalls while you feed a calf. That day, we stopped fighting. Clubbing is a verb in my book, where you are dancing so hard the wait staff forgets to serve drinks. The twilight is far too quick— moves like you making me seek an oil lamp to cast light on the