you wake with bugbites on neck, face red of sun and drink,
wrist and left hand aching from previous night’s maddened violin screeching,
eyes beady with desire

walk for hours and hours through fields and hills and little towns until the purple sky
boils and green turns to gold turns to black, pick at the blotch on your index finger,
think of little dialogues,
the cottage,
the butter and mortar and pestle and single cow,
the oil-smooth pond where I’ll catch your dinner,
bring back home the creature to eat fried, scales and all,
roll the eyeballs around on our tongues,
little de-winged flies littering the wooden table as neither you nor I
are good housekeepers.
Drink till we have to hold our faces up.
Feel the heat about my ears.
Bury ourselves in the other’s chest, hot handfuls of earth down each time we close
down eyelids, down each time we drink down the glass.

I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.
One day in a forest where you lent me that grey sweater,
one evening in the hills with fashionable sofas and a gold ring,
one night in a car and
who can hope that in two thousand years someone will be decoding this
with dials, with arithmetic — so
that I’ll be spared saying, out of disinterest in cruelty,
that I’m addressing this to ………………………………………..

that if I’ve got no reality,
at least I’ve an ideal.
Which means never.
But it’s still true.





SONYA VATOMSKY is a Moscow-born, Seattle-raised feminist poet and essayist whose work appears in No Tokens, VIDA, Hermeneutic Chaos, and elsewhere. They edit and review poetry at Fruita Pulp & are the author of chapbook My Heart in Aspic (Porkbelly Press, summer 2015) and full-length collection Salt is for Curing (Sator Press, fall 2015). Find them online at and @coolniceghost.





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