"self-portrait as your worry-stone" by Liane St. Laurent

I taste of salt. salt of the ocean and salt of your palm. you move your thumb

back and forth / back and forth across my back / across my back I carry the worry

of water that rolled me back and forth against flanks of sand and a bed of stones

so that I may carry yours. I know your blistered soul. I see where you go when you turn

out your light. I know your keys / your leather wallet / loose coins / the many man-things

on your nightstand. I am volcanic — your flare, your flash. when you wake, you summon

my heat and spring creeps closer. daphne blooms. a phoebe sings her name. the shadow

of a wasp outside your window treads across the sunlit blinds, builds its paper house.

Liane St. Laurent is an old dog learning new tricks. She has washed dishes, driven horse-drawn carriages, picked apples, taught English and is currently an IT professional. Recent work appears online and in print in The Banyan Review, The Penmen Review, Sidereal Magazine, The Poets’ Touchstone, among others. Liane lives in New Hampshire with her husband, their two dogs, and an array of woodland creatures. Catch her online at lianestlaurent.com or connect on Twitter @lianestlaurent.