james and me as other things

 

 

your face split wax and

boy down the middle—

straight down,

left side right.

i’d like to have known what

your seven years did, but

when we’d draw

each other in the sand

at day camp i’d

never ask you what

happened.

you would have said

“burned” and

kept drawing.

 

sometimes

we left ourselves

in dirt and heat and

once, away as wolves,

we sat up in oak instead and

(not how wolves would)

you asked

what you looked like.

 

the day blushed.

the light seized your face

and when i said “like a candle,”

you cried.

 

 

Rosie DeSantis is an actress, theater-maker, aspiring organizer, Detroiter, and recent graduate of the Experimental Theater Wing at New York University. Her poetry has thus far been published in American Chordata, Linden Avenue, Crabfat Magazine, and Words Apart.

 

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