The dry March day you moved in
we set up your bed; not knowing if I would be visiting
come April, though I was comforted by your
presence in the room next door, the earthy
incense clinging to your quilt, the width of the wooden
bars across the base of your bed frame, your drawings
tacked to the walls, white turning grey in the sunlight.

We have spent several summers
looking at heavy books on the living
room floor of your childhood home,
time suspending itself somewhere between April and
August each year.

Sometimes I have quietly withered,
while your drew your thin legs
against your chest in substantial
origami. Afternoon in back road sunlight,
your car creaking as we turn, the fields outside the
window dripping leaves, some forest we
discovered in the quiet mid-day.




Laura Salvatore is a senior at Southern Connecticut State University, where she is double-majoring in Art History and English. She is currently working on her thesis, a collection of ekphrasis poetry that focuses on artwork by women, mainly during the Surrealist movement. She is also the Editor of SCSU’s literary magazine, Folio.





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