Cheryl Snell


Late sun smoothes her quilted skin,
her cheeks rise under her eyes.
She’s silent in the car, squints
at streetlights flaring up along the road.

She says nothing when I feed her,
but I see how she tracks the glint
that bounces off the spoon.

When downtown smog smudges
her bedroom windowpane, I begin
to draw the drapes. She tugs at my wrist
and says, It’s not enough, but let it in.


Return to Volume 2.1






All files © 2005-2012 Blood Orange Review