She never wanted this heavy serum in her pulse.

But she can be very good at waiting.

It could take her days to realize he may not call;

he may not write.

For now, there are hurricanes all around this bed,

too much tapping noise and blinking lights.

The winds sigh and quake.

Rain stabs at windowpanes, tiptoes into basements.

Tonight there’s a full moon inside a red cloud.

She undresses underneath moon and glass and candles.

Her body is a map of the path of his mouth.

When she turns, she is blue and pink and blossoming.

It’s marvelous here. There are cookies.

The giant oak can protect us all.

Come. Oh please come. Hunt. Carry or

release her. With your tongue. The eye.

—

Marie Abate is a poet and writer from Baltimore. She has an M.A. in Writing from Johns Hopkins University. Her recent writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Sewanee Theological Review, Urbanite, Crack the Spine, Downer Magazine, 20 Something Magazine, The Meadowland Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, and In Posse Review, among other publications. She is the poetry editor for Seltzer, a literary magazine based in Baltimore.