I am a hot little dumpling of a woman, fragrant pillows, dimples— I am a sweet and steamy comfort, silky victuals, spiced and biblical,
By Marsha Singhabout a month ago in Poets
We're old swords, my lovely— dogged, not learning from the two hundred years that our city's been burning; we're just ashes to ashes and
She woke every morning and dressed in the sun, then dreamt in the breezeway where the day's laundry hung. She listened for
At night we were a fresco painted by an astronaut, our messy bed the chapel of a voyeuristic God, where glory worked with hurried hands
I called to you softly when I was young; my voice bounced off the bricks of a suburban slum, sauntered down
You dimmed the light and invited the moon into the room – a stranger, she stole through the night to our chambers, a bevy of damsels to carry her candles.
Next time I wake from sleep for keeps – from deepest, darkest slumber – I may come back a little bird to visit in the summer; my
An old barn shrill with crickets' trill (we snuck away to meet like spies) tomatoes on the windowsill (the car was hot against my thighs)
It was the only pie Ma would make all year – blackberries, still warm from the sun, picked over for the occasional passenger (scurrying ant,
By Marsha Singh4 months ago in Poets
Astrid's mind had been elsewhere. In Vermont, sitting on the edge of Ryker's warm bed, to be exact, pulling her boots on in the scant light spilling into the room, a lump of sadness like a hot coal rising in her throat.
By Marsha Singh5 months ago in Fiction
Aye, yer still a treach'rous rake, brave in yer swashbucklin' ways, a criminal, cravin' still the delicious ache o' romance–
By Marsha Singh6 months ago in Poets
You were hard like sun-warmed stone, your eyelashes were feathers – these are things I can't forget; I'll write
By Marsha Singhabout a year ago in Poets
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