1 poem

By hannah duane

wedding day

Socks come off, reveal a thin line between white flesh and dirt. I look like an unsure chameleon,
not quite chest bearing to the early day. Below, a marmot flutters through thick grass, the lake is
clear. Mount Kaness reclines regal and the air smells of dried sage and spring. My companion is
still sleeping as I make breakfast. Oatmeal, dried cherries, water warmed in a suppurating pot.
Nothing fights harder for life than this little flame, blue around the edges.

***

In the afternoon, we go skinny dipping. Sports bras come off sticky, the material damp. Rinsing
dense mesh is sacrilege, but we watch dirt dance from underarm stains, floating belly up towards
Andromeda. Galaxy approaches like next week: bachelorette in the mountains rushes river lonely
like the space between all those stars. There is more emptiness than matter, more combustion
than waterfall. The sun goes nova and we are consumed—pressured to condense like never
before.

***

On my parent’s wedding day, my mother’s back was littered with mosquito bites. Strapless silk I
see layered in photographs like fresh whipped cream, the white soothing angered skin. I imagine her flavored
like peach pie, edges caramelized. But they had lemon cake instead, and my
grandpa wouldn’t eat the flecked yellow, risen like pre-horizon morning.

***

Lake frogs are abundant this time of year
Hopping between buttercups towards
Some kind of honeysuckle future