They say don’t love a girl with daisies in her mouth,
wrists circled by cotton, skies breaking just before
her shoulders. Don’t. In the mornings I still see
you, gauzy by the curtain, corneas slick with mist.
My mountain girl. If I tried, I said, it would mean
war and beauty. My body makes them synonymous.
You see stars in tarnishing sequins — my jagged
teeth as icebergs with razed heads. You see me
circling myself through the day, a dog that cannot
lie down. I want to be a vessel, instead. Steer me.
Send me to sled across the ocean on my stomach.
When we meet at the silo between our houses,
I say I have learned the art of wivery. Curling you
into my chest, coaxing our bodies to slot together.
You clasp hands to my cheeks like you can breathe
air into me just by thinking it. I align your figure —
chalked elbows and silhouette-whitened knees —
to my remaining days. Across the street, a truck
coughs itself back to life. You turn your head and
seek the noise. A windmill begins to wave its sails.
Lake Vargas is a regular contributor at Royal Rose Magazine. She primarily writes poetry and creative non-fiction. Her work has been published by Sea Foam Mag, Empty Mirror, and The Cerurove, among others. She tweets at @lakewrites. More of her work can be found on her Tumblr, @stonemattress.