By Quinn Lewis
Allowed the air.
Allowed the surrounding pasture
as we pleased. I followed you there,
keeping a great distance between us
in the woods, so as not to step
on the heel of your boot, wrenching
it off. You always hated that.
It made you whip around and snap,
a wolf at her cub that has not
waited in the tree line for her mother
like a good mirage. But I did love
that warm apartment. We lit the fire
and the lamps until we glowed. The mice
burrowed in beds we left for them—
empty cigarette boxes, the foil
torn out and folded into stars we taped
to the ceiling. We ate yogurt and wild
strawberries, let our hair grow long
and slept with it wet against silk
pillowcases, taunting fever or infection.
You allowed the soft, brown rabbit her loping
over the cream duvet, leaving
a trail of blameless droppings. It was like
a field of snow under which we lay,
over which every creature inside
the walls with us for a time
Quinn Lewis has published poems in Shenandoah, The Southern Review, Cave Wall, Best New Poets, and elsewhere. Her work has been featured on Poetry Daily. She's the recipient of a grant from the Elizabeth George Foundation, a Claudia Emerson Scholarship from the Sewanee Writers' Conference, and the 2019 RADAR Poetry Coniston Prize. She teaches English at SUNY Oneonta.