by Mistee St. Clair

The houseplants have been left to dry and dust
so I repot, gently run my fingers through the roots, shake and untangle.
I could marry all my old lovers.
One loosening my hair with clever fingers.
One with wide, calloused palms at the stem of my back.
Another’s body hot as a horse.
Marry them all and still I disappear.

I wet a cloth to leaves until they shine
and imagine the shock of air against wet skin, imagine electricity
currenting the salt of sweat, imagine a starfish shivering as the tide bares.
The absence of touch has become ordinary.
I touch these leaves and one universe over,
separated by the silver band of a ring, she shudders.

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Mistee St. Clair is the author of the chapbook, This Morning is Different, an Alaska Literary Award grantee, and has poems forthcoming in or published by The Common, Northwest Review, and more. She lives with her family and border collie in Juneau, Alaska, a northern rainforest, where she is an editor for the Alaska State Legislature. She can be found at misteestclair.com.

by Mistee St. Clair