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Elizabeth Witte

This Fabric

Your eye is a horse’s big and clear next to all your skin. Glass of water is a lake. And the judge is my feet when I stand at the stove. Blink again your big eye. We live here in this screen of light beautiful, curled against a stream gathered up like a skirt in crouch, watching. The sound I’m crying from the middle: not when youth was drying on us but when we chewed and hit our way across each yard of this fabric, having built up the strength.  The separation of us starts where heads turn at the behest of eyes at the beckoning of brain, surrendered while negotiating a storm.  Here, your big eye next to mine sleeping.