I knew I loved you in the bushes,
whispering don’t wake the chicks
their eggs, their mothers
afterwards you lifted me onto shoulders
pressing doorbells, begging for champagne
we love each other with berry twigs, stems
of my eyes twisting together, vision blurred
I left wine bottles somewhere in your backyard
glass blooms into blushing mushrooms and
confetti ashes. when you left I dragged my body
through cauliflower fields, burning green heads, no
longer a steady stem of body, I am melted wax in
male green jars, my hair a fan of starved tentacles. I miss
you, but I’m floating across the field like a dream.
Sam Moe (she/her) is a queer writer of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. She is pursuing a PhD in creative writing at Illinois State University. Her work has appeared in Overheard Lit Mag and Cypress Press. She received an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing in June, 2021.