bird’s eye

We are from a time
neither of us can remember
ageless glory, unspoken
delicate steeples folding within

Your fingertips write fragments
of poetry on my palm
a language I have learned
over the many days speaking it to you

We are echoes of each other’s bodies
your drumbeat voice in my throat
we are two halves of ripe fruit
that splits as it hits the ground

The same radio frequency
vibrating between our fragile little heads

I could not fly before I met you

now I never leave the sky.

Han Raschka (they/them) is an up-and-coming writer from Wisconsin, but don’t tell them that. When not wrangling their three dogs or drinking far too expensive coffee, they can be found taking workshops through the San Francisco Creative Writing Institute to hone their abilities. Recent accomplishments include a Brooklyn Poets 2021 Fellowship. They have previously been published in Sixfold and Sapphic Writers Collective, and have work forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic.

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