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Ithaca, New York
by Camille Meder
Uproot with me.
It is better to grapevine together
and tumbleweed across a desert
than extend feelers into rocky island
and ask, is this all.
I was not born to be languorous hips
draped across a couch wondering
if you think of me
while Aeaean shores kiss your feet.
When you leave this bed is a grave
and the only music is the ghost of the ice-maker
and the chanting of the refrigerator.
Let us break into the night fingers entwining like roots
like flames against the heavens
About the Author
Camille Meder teaches and writes about Modernism in American, British, and Spanish literature and co-edits a journal in Women's Studies. Her fiction and poetry have also been published.
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