Jaymi Heimbuch

         1. From Ella, To Avry

The slant of light, dirty ivory filtered through the quiet paper curtains,
a dust filled stripe spiraling to the spine of a deep coffee hardcover.

Watching my fingers tug at the top and pull it down, with it a pair
of dried moth's wings fluttering to the floor as if forgetting there is no body

left to twitch them back and forth in flight. The settled air of waiting,
pages wishing to swish past one another again, the smell of time, yellowing pulp,

silence wafting up, my familiar air. And after this your sudden caramel eyes
landing on mine, in mine, glinting then smooth, glinting again, not liquid,

not solid, the weight of the book the only reference, a buoy numbered and colored,
                                                                                                                                       bobbing
the distance to shore and pointing with a spinning arrow towards whitecaps,

the echo of your voice, your name, the calm moaning call of whales,
of elements shifting against each other, flesh and aura in unison.


        2. From Avry, To Ella

a thump
        and then your face
caught         am I or you or we together
in one common shaft of air
               in between just then and
us.
Your arm curved and wanting
        to collect itself
a look of glass heard shattered in another room
a popped balloon
               when you thought yourself ready
angular fate or starved circumstance
        your reluctant presence
               thanking your stalled legs
for saving you regret.