by Megan Grumbling

I sky it high      the white      as if a child

lay giggling here beneath,   breathing the light

in billows as it settles,   seeks its rest

upon each piecemeal bone of cheek and breast

imagined whole      such height      as if above

myself, as smooth as if loft were, like love,

susceptible to bone, and from below

relearn myself as blind, by what these bones

displace      delight      as if the universe

were one, were sheer, receptive to each curve

of clavicle or lip. Once all the pale

has touched, I’ll blow a last warm lift, exhale

as long as I have air, then let its kiss

descend      alight      as if to sleep in it.