Big Dipper
by Samantha Sweigert
—
Your light always goes out before mine and soon
I know you’re sleeping by the rhythms.
Breath crescendos and the little bird
God fed you before birth slows its beating.
I try to match your inhale
exha—
inhale, no. I take deeper breaths and that’s okay because
I know you’re mine in spite of polar patterns.
Our skin sticks together.
I drink you in through touch and cells colliding,
taste the sweat like glue with moonlight
outlining bed sheet curves and breaths—
In. Out. Rise and fall and heart,
I hear you.
Even with my eyes closed I make maps with
stars as destination markers, places I
should touch but I wait patiently ‘til morning.
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