Poetry by Emily Montgomery
Issue 14 • April 2014

It is at night when I remember
to cross thresholds—

to pass under starched skies
dripping into the silhouettes
of branches, etched frames
of my midnight reverie.

It is at night when your bones
knock against my bones—

medial across distal,
index over thumb,
semiotics for our language
of mischief.

And it was at night
when you opened the gate
with your fingertips outstretched
and you summoned the spirits
that live under those stones—

tiny reincarnates of the moon
pacing above.

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