the autumn sky is tacit
and i am robed in gravel.
the woodland earth is glued to me. to remove it
would be to remove my skin. to remove my feeling.
to kill the grasshoppers that descant to us.
i plunge into your arms and your whole body
must feel like you’re walking barefoot.
your whole naked body. the piquant abrasion. you speak
at me but the wind whirs your words into drunken clatter.
silence. owls hoot for shifting leaves.
the pebbles are raw. they are making
their way inside of me. you rub them
with used-up hands and then i know what you said.
is there any way inside of me? you kiss my gritty lips.
you start to peel.
the leaves aren’t falling fast enough.
Daryl Sznyter received her MFA in poetry from The New School and her BA in creative writing from Pepperdine University. Previous and forthcoming publications include Word Fountain, Best American Poetry blog, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Bluestem Magazine and anthology Theories of HER. She currently resides in Dunmore, Pennsylvania.