Matina L. Stamatakis

In Changing Seasons
darkness askew
where body embraces
specter, angles; 

a triangle etched
in poplar, 



                   scalpel-and-peel our craniums,
life's memory reflecting like lamplight

above you

    blanketed in one "fell swoop", 
over-ripe paunches of swollen fruit, 

     while houses below were drawn 
into mist, then waxed with rain—

raindrops nuder than persimmon , & where you touched
—for that instance--hands bedded in my mink

an intense skin, hoping to find
itself warm inside the pupa, hoping

to reveal itself only when 
the curtains have lifted
    their silver shrouds

& when the slick
of my revealing-
dew in bloom

lifting, twine & all—
not assuaged

into the tumult, winding 

my down, 



I can no longer
         hold myself together

with twigs