Part I. by Josey Rose Duncan

You are here and I am home. Wait to let out light, to swallow. Iris as parted lips. Grab, wild, at shoulders. Trace the lengths of our soft edges to our elbows, to our knees, and back. You kiss my toes and it’s not a cliché. I spider my fingers over the top of your head because I know. As far as I can tell your mouth appeared one evening in front of me at a brewery in Fruitvale. Between train tracks and wailing and beams and breath and breath. As far as you can tell, I grew at your feet. When you are waiting and don’t realize. You turn over wet stones in my palms, capture the writhe underneath. I turned myself into a whisper because I thought I was a ghost. 3am, 4pm, 7:30am. Pacific sunset, stroke of midnight. 11:11. You feel the moon. Tell me I am the tide. We tie our wrists with ribbons; cut them free.

Josey Rose Duncan writes poetry, short fiction, and egregiously long text messages. She’s working on her first novel, which involves religious cults and strip clubs. Josey has published a few poems in a few places, reads regularly around the Bay Area, and serves on literary nonprofit Quiet Lightning’s board. She lives in San Francisco.