By Kelly Grace Thomas


Our bodies speak in metaphors of mounting pressure.

The shaky breath of silence, the fumbling of inevitable.

Hands tremble, smeared and sooted, we will turn this coal into diamonds.

In the dark indigo of glance

waiting equals worth, to find a sparkle in this pitch-black cave

Names whisper everything we haven’t yet let ourselves be.

I have chased the sunrise with polite potential,

knowing one day, when hands finally steady

we could speak of all we are,

instead of what is supposed to be.

In heartbeats and breaths I count the seasons

like postcards,

like souvenirs.

I let go in whispers

and listen for your footsteps.