Tell me the sound of one hand moving
into another, the sound of the long gray Taconic
when we lean our heads against it, in the dim
flashlight evening, amid the worm scent
and the soil–pitch bark. Tell me the sound —
that flicking against the mouse–bones
in the skull — of memory, of folding–out road,
I had a thought for no one's but your ears —
the words that warmed us so
while fog edged in, smoothing the aspen
leaves and the grassy spaces
like the heavy press of a palm.
By Rachel Adams
Rachel Adams is a native of Baltimore, Maryland; a longtime resident of Washington, DC; and the editor of an academic journal centered on post-Soviet democratization and of Lines + Stars, a quarterly literary journal. A graduate of the Catholic University of America and the Johns Hopkins University, her poetry has been published in Blue Unicorn, Ophelia Street, PennUnion Review, Town Creek Poetry, and others.
Work for Monthly Verse is selected through our editorial process. New poems are selected from authors that submitted work for the last issue. Read more authors by subscribing to Fjords.