Choke, cherry-brimmed boy, mouth stained carmine, an Equinox between us.

I unbutton my shirt slow. I
stir pine sap into my voice, make it murmur low.

I know thunder, I’ve swam currents, blood garnets, a cell replicating and decaying, that microcosmic Reincarnate.

Tell me, when my periphery is peppered silver, when time’s tally marks have made my body a stooped spine scar, Will you track the sun over the stone of this form?

Will you plant raspberry seeds in the palms of my cold hands?

Will you draw winter in my ashes and scatter me where snow will not fall?

Call it a private solstice, call it an outcome of our eccentric orbit, call it an Analemma.

What happens after rigor mortis, it is not Silent.

I am still there, tracking the horizon, this time with my eyes shut.




Image Credits: Giuseppi Donatello via Wikimedia Commons

Leo Karwatowski

Leo works and resides in New York with her partner and countless house plants. She is a queer writer, health care graduate student, and passionate advocate and activist for LGBTQ causes. She has been previously featured in The Bookends Review and Lamplight Quarterly. More of her work can be found at

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One thought on “Analemma

  • January 16, 2018 at 2:34 pm

    A very fine poem, the lines tumble seemingly without thought (though I can imagine how much careful work went into this.)
    Just one minor stumble for me:
    I’ve swam … I’ve swum?


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