half-sonnet for fusion

By Eris Sker

“the trouble with the city fog,” you say,

“is it feels like pre-grieving: trading one pearl tear

for another and pressing down

where the wrist bone penetrates skin.”

you say it with a lisp, a tell, a little undone.

“in the forest,” you say “the fog turns trees to schemes,

vertical traps. the shadows sticky with emptiness

like the sea behind the scenes;

contagious like a body

or the space for murder just off-stage.”

& I recall the multiplying undergrowth,

how we spooned up whatever moonlight we could find.

your breath on my neck, your wrist by my wrist,

our footsteps echoing, undifferentiated.

Illustration by Macarena Hepp