Andrea Krause
Forage
After we exchange the sheets
for clean, she clings to me fresh
shook, acrid, vulnerable. How easily
the wind knocks it all out of us, trips us
up on invisible specks. Skittish
animals, we forage the wide open,
erupted burrowing against
ruptured, waiting for the radio
to play honey, humming sticky slow
breaths, singing us to safety. Maybe
I can only love things that fall apart
in my hands. Reckless, I greet
any refuge, devouring, one song
is no guarantee. These arms
I gather in a shawl reach long
to surrender. I’ve never found beauty
in durability anyway. So slight
her profile, I bend back
onto myself, holding the void
where I came from. We wear
perennial wild blankets, sweet
gold, keep us warm, keep us warm.
for clean, she clings to me fresh
shook, acrid, vulnerable. How easily
the wind knocks it all out of us, trips us
up on invisible specks. Skittish
animals, we forage the wide open,
erupted burrowing against
ruptured, waiting for the radio
to play honey, humming sticky slow
breaths, singing us to safety. Maybe
I can only love things that fall apart
in my hands. Reckless, I greet
any refuge, devouring, one song
is no guarantee. These arms
I gather in a shawl reach long
to surrender. I’ve never found beauty
in durability anyway. So slight
her profile, I bend back
onto myself, holding the void
where I came from. We wear
perennial wild blankets, sweet
gold, keep us warm, keep us warm.
Biography
|
Andrea Krause (she/her) lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband, daughter, and snoring greyhound. Her work is forthcoming in Autofocus, Moist Poetry Journal, Sledgehammer Lit, and elsewhere. She nods along on Twitter at @PNWPoetryFog.
|
