Megan Merchant

by Megan Merchant

“The act of running ones fingers tenderly though somebody’s hair.”
(Brazilian Portuguese).

I’ll take fifteen minutes
to put on the rain
while you jazz,

hinting at the zipper-fit
of a single glass of red,

you say love, as in
a need, a country.

I lay a silk scarf
over the fishbowl,

your hands
working the knife
through the onion, whole,
with such delicate

diced small
into tears,

but oh, how
we open
our mouths
at the reach of each other,

we’re going to pull
the cork free,

sleep with the windows

be okay watching our breath
wander acres of dark
like arrows,

under clouds
that seem to have
bellied just for us,

the way, when we first met,
you paused

and came close to touching
my cheek,

saying I like
the way you wear your hair—

straight, damp.

Not needing
a name, or address,

but a promise—
the soft heart of bread
when it’s broken,

the crust—
trailed all over the floor.

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 19, Issue 4.

Megan MerchantMegan Merchant lives in the tall pines of Prescott, AZ. She is the author of two full-length poetry collections: Gravel Ghosts (Glass Lyre Press, 2016), The Dark’s Humming (2015 Lyrebird Award Winner, Glass Lyre Press, 2017), four chapbooks, and a forthcoming children’s book with Philomel Books. You can find her work at

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