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Ithaca, New York

by Camille Meder

nonchaloir_(repose)_1948.16.1.jpg

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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