by Hannah Radeke
Under the helium sun, he swears this cavity
of Earth is hers, covers Sien’s slim hand with his own,
the two draped over her round belly. Being with her
echoes in the chest. Come in, says the silence,
try not to wake the baby. On the warm nights
her ache still branches into morning. Black streets.
Bare feet in the cold. Poking through the mess of everything:
a string of forsythia, yellow trembling
in the stomach. Vincent forgives her,
though he knows she doesn’t need it.
Sees colors in the wind coming off the waves.
Theo sends him paper the color of unbleached linen.
The color of sand. The dunes with Sien, living like a true bohemian,
she says, mouth glittering against the opening and closing of the sea.
Hannah Radeke is a poet and photographer living in Chicago. They studied art history and creative writing in undergrad.
A-Minor 