The inside sea does not ask—
it nags and sits, salmon-belly
smattered, adjusted, misfit.
Someone says cuddle, sincerely
means snuggle but still
the night spins through a song.
I grew into my jeans, cleaned
jelly jars for drinking, and held
one thought never taking a swig—
I carved this cave and called it love.
And I care so much what I think.
The snow snows up a pretty thing—
escorts a vacant patio just so.
A waitress’s hands and feet wait
on us hand and foot. I ask for cream.
This winter squirms in to stiffen
our misgivings. We’re blinded by
weather. Glass under tongues takes
temperatures when people have colds.
We’ve an air of sick and beneath,
my man, you’ve budded breasts.
Black cat behind master, I put on
my underwear after my shoes—
trolloping my way back to the truth.
Ice came to claim the city and two
things were eradicated thereafter:
We’re in love. So be happy.
I stand like this. My sleeping pieces
peeled from night. I learned this fix fixed
me when you happened upon my manner—
still whipped and arranging a scene.
SALLY DELEHANT is the author of A Real Time of It (The Cultural Society, 2012). Her work has appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Catch Up: Emerging Writers Issue, Phantom Limb, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, and ONandOnScreen. She lives in Chicago.