Sofia Bagdade

Cusp

Lately the car is parked
silver and wide in a lot
no one remembers the name of,
not the teenage limbs
or late-night sleepers, just
us on the sweet leather as the rain pours:
crooked sheets, your shoulder to me.
Frosted cream clings tongue and finger
tips as you say this is not easy
like I say let’s stop at the nearest shell
and think some more about open roads,
how your brows knit and flip as wet field
somersaults. We breathe the wrong words
through the right lips: tight-knight bondage
or cat’s cradle friendship, your hips then
my wisps caught frame-by-frame: delay.
I hope it rains more, then more,
then we have to pull over on the shoulder
and weave together,
then apart,
until the stitching warms.

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Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in Red Weather and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light and French Bulldogs.