Once my legs might have wound
like sapling roots around yours,

our radar senses seeking
just the breath of distance.

Like swooping bats through gray,
we could swing and hover,

echo-locate and attend to one another
for hours. Waking bunched

in sheets and blankets, the best of us lay
strewn like dandelion seed. But now,

most nights, only my side of the bed
peels back and opens like a tulip. Your half

remains unblossomed, a field clear-cut, left
fallow. I have worn out your soil

and you will not consider what we might
plant to bring you back.


Beth Konkoski is a writer and high school English teacher living in Northern Virginia with her husband and two teenagers. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including: The Potomac Review, Gargoyle, and The Aurorean. She has forthcoming work in The Saranac Review and Gyroscope Review. Her chapbook, Noticing the Splash, was published in 2010 by BoneWorld Press.

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