Words by Arwen Verdnik
Art by Madeleine Connor
Small Hairs
Gentle creature who made
these fleet wingbeats
on my skin,
Your eyelids and my cheek
sprout hairs that reach into
the snails-eye space
between your face and mine.
There they clasp as open arms
of arthropod companions,
lost and found again,
somewhere in the great sky.
My mind is made and buried in cicada sleep:
small hairs like these are made to keep
the secret
of our moth-wing kiss.
