VENIO
My lips part the clouds along the horizon
of your cheekbone, we curl into the shapes of our dreams—mine, a shed
skin. Yours, a meadow heavy with coming rain thick
in your mouth. I’m sifting through its flickering grasses and find
myself, face-to-face with an uncut blue moon swimming
amidst the fireflies, weaving itself a glimmering shadow of honey-
suckle and morning glory
holes carved into the crumbling niches, eclipses coronaed
with graffiti jagged edges worn soft with countless hands
You step into the role of saint like water, blossoming
along the parched concrete I kneel and pray you’ll wash over me, but
like all deified creatures, you leave me drowning
in absence.
Klein Voorhees (they/them) is a writer, artist, and translator from North Carolina. Their work has been featured or is forthcoming in A Public Space, Southeast Review, North American Review, The Arkansas International, and BODY. You can find more of their work at kleinvoorhees.com
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