September Chill || Victoria-Lynn Bell

You take me into muted wilderness
and bid me to listen to your quiet trickle—
through the rooted trees I lie in a thicket
and you whisper in my ear to join you.
I wade into your embrace, and you
wash against the pale gooseflesh of my thighs—
a rivulet between my legs like cold fingers.
Quiet exploration, desperation.
You brush silt against my calves,
the crooks of my elbows, hollow spaces.
I collect you in particles and tremble
as you rush over me—
a swell of September chill.

This was originally published in Fall 2017 edition of The Helix.


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