Hands to Heart’s Center by Olivia Wolfe


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hands to heart’s center

it’s raining
and I’m watching my step for snails.
I’m thinking about salamanders
darting in the dry brush about
the wet smoke of Marlboros
and the mouth of Malbec.

there’s certain anxieties about
the rain, about
the bus
that comes four minutes late
or not at all.

the man waiting speaks small things inside himself, he mutters:

too much teeth, never enough hands, too much teeth, never enough hands.

we have words for the way this seven o’clock sun
hits
the side of your face, but
we
don’t dare call it
intimate
terrorism,

it’s easy like how we only ever fought after drinking, so that’s when I call to say
they fixed that crack in the road in front of your old house.

it’s easy like finding
the words
pollen and poison
when my mouth swells with Spring and
I am
full of your neck
all over
again.

it’s easy like a hula hoop, when it starts to fall,
you swing your hips that much sweeter, that much lower.

the bus will come four minutes late
or not at all,
and at least we can always
count on that.



Olivia Wolfe

Olivia has western Pennsylvania roots, a weird overbite, and a Gemini habit. She has some other scattered publishing, including little words in Literary Sexts and Black & Grey Magazine.