I’ll Wait
Kristen Lee
poetry ⋅ issue 2
with my eyes
wizened and horizon-burned,
a hand gripping ivory railing
and the other—
a woe-blotched scrivener’s page.
My palm will cup the cityscape
like petunia petals,
though the sea might gnaw
this empire out of my hands and
over the edge;
I’ll lay upon these stretched roads,
dream beneath the airglow;
nevertheless, I know
about death through the heart
by shooting stars.
But I’ll slice the blood from my veins
and dribble it into an oath,
imagine the lilac puff of
a promise
take the stunned sky by storm.
Dreams, they’d call it.
Yanking on thread
too thin to walk on
and pulled gods-bound tight.
Still, I’ll dig my heels into the dirt,
and keep waiting.