I leap from the edge of the marble quarry. Through the woodsmoke I fall; through the sea of stars beyond your eyes; through the rain as I run to the hammock, wreathed in clove smoke; through the marble headstones and the rosemary on the graves that we crushed with our eager bodies at midnight; through the balsams that surrounded us in an orange bower as you roared and I whimpered and we rolled. Through the perfumed turmoil and the daydreams. Through time. Out of time. I hit the dark water and sink into the cold.
Emily Benson (she/her) lives in Western New York with her husband and two sons. Previous publications include Blue River Review, Five Minute Lit, Hecate Magazine, High Shelf Press, Moist Poetry Journal, Paddler Press, and The Dillydoun Review. Her work can be found at www.emilybensonpoet.com.