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Amie Whittemore

To forget how you tasted those leggy afternoons
when our bodies spilled
like wine across the floor,

is to admit a hawk into the house.
Is to wring a rag of water.

When I’m in the thicket
with my smaller hungers,
I don’t need to know every cave

and what it stores, cool
and damp, for you. I don’t need
to know how many nests

are lined with your hair.
There’s nothing tame about twilight,
this old song shaking the sweetgum leaves—

when I thirst I dream
like a violin waiting the bow.

— Amie Whittemore, from “Nocturne,” Birmingham Poetry Review (no. 49, Spring 2022)

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