by Leslie Grollman
  

To want the shape of your body in my hand


To rock as in chanting as in forgetting my name


A novice unsure of how unsure of timing


How to blue the bronze of can’t 
          into a summer’s moon, into a naked swim 
 

A sculptor carves too deep into the marble then a debt is owed 


How do I swim spiraling currents deep yet debt-free  


What if I retract one hand to your two extended


What if only half is honey is tongue is morning moss 


Sometimes I may mistake my Self for hightide


What if you are mantis and I want malachite


Sometimes I feel like mountain water: crisp and fresh, babbling 
        in small streams, bubbling between stones and grasses bulging


I leave a suitcase full in case an avalanche comes  


What if silk fails   



What if we repeat ourselves: what if we run out
         of stories: we are not Scheherazade


Sometimes I may mistake you for a sand-filled empty,
        abandon you on a red plaid blanket  


Then what if my forgiveness hasn’t forgiven me

 
When I place my hand on your plumed flesh, close my eyes, I see our end

                        
                        What is the half-life of a taste  


Then water rushes down a mountain, there is no time to hide


To weep is to wander in place


                        I brush my hair pretending it cascades

Leslie Grollman’s work appears in Yolk, Spoken Word Scratch Night, Writing Utopia 2020 Anthology, The Selkie, Together: An Anthology, Thimble, Nailed, Pathos, From Arthur’s Seat, other publications, and is forthcoming. Leslie was chosen to be a reader for one of Octopus Books’ open reading periods. She holds an MSc Creative Writing, Poetry, with Distinction, from the University of Edinburgh.