You loved to dance, humming
like a transformer almost over-
loaded, crackling. You
thought it was sweeter
than citrus stings in the small cuts between
the index and middle finger. Than the acid
burnt tongue, melted like butter, words made
liquid. The sky is too still. You’d open
up and fill it with howls, of ecstasy
or fear, even you didn’t know.
Let this never end.
Let up, let fly the heart, beating
down this door of ribs.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 5.
Brodie DeHart holds an Associates of Arts in English from Wor-Wic Community College. He is currently pursuing a BFA in English with a concentration in literature from Salisbury University, having most recently studied under poet John A. Nieves.
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