Living, still, among the gods and the bees
at the cusp of morning. The first moments of light like
a virgin’s inner thigh—brief and bare.
Drunk on mint. The grape leaves yellowing
already, eating their sour fruit anyway
crushing the skins up against the back of my teeth.

All of these young men falling in love and
taking the animal skins of the women—

living, still, among the gods with my sinew still
intact but not much else. Remembering a different
language that was more about eyelids than sound.
Drunken tumble of the hive among flowers that will soon
bruise blue with frost. Sitting there, thighs and ankles
pressing into the mud, losing it. Letting it crumble
 

like the heads of the thistle. Feeling the meat of me
exposed and losing it before the light has reached here
where the gods still are in the forsythia

all of these young men falling in love and

taking the animal skins of the women—

Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 17, Issue 3.

Sarina Bosco is a chronic New Englander and reluctant homeowner. When not writing, she can most likely be found washing dishes or hiking the surrounding area. Her work has previously appeared in Moon Pigeon, The Missing Slate, The Sonder Review, and others.

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