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    • Issue 8 + 9
    • Issue 7

For Sebastian, Now

Our sputtering, starting hearts 
giggled around every curve 
of night; your curved spine 
close, lips, every seam of your smile. Miles

of fields, how wheat stirred
that big bowl of stars, how we were never
that young again, the sky large enough
to hold us. How somehow now, we both fold

into then unknowable warmths. You once 
held the rough skin
of my elbows while I unicycled 
down an empty road, evening full 

with the promise
of moon, and you: the biggest light,
like I didn't even need a full 
sky, and remember our easy

feet, our easy keys and front doors,
our little brothers
asleep, and summer's slow
hum. Home this year is three blocks

from downtown, and I keep
a plant in the kitchen window, still green 
after winter. Sometimes my lover sleeps
all afternoon; I leave, and

return to his breath, its every lift
between sheets limned with the day's softest 
light, and I lay next to him. Those nervous-kneed
days so small, so far away, but still in me

is the barefoot bloom of youth,
the middle seat of a rusted truck, streetlights 
pulling a glow across that face of yours like 
this was it, the whole world

and all we wanted 
of it spinning on the tips of our simple 
fingers, while we spun
directionless through night.
Emily Alexander is a writer, a student, a clumsy waitress, an older sister, and a self-proclaimed foodie. Her work is featured or forthcoming in Potluck Magazine, Harpoon Review, and Radar Poetry. She was recently awarded the Academy of American Poets Prize at the University of Idaho, where she is working her way through an undergraduate degree in Creative Writing. She can be found at emilyalexander.yolasite.com.
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