i’ll trade you these hearts
the night we thought you’d die, i dreamed in shades
of green. it could help, i thought, to paint you
fresh: your first words, crisp fields, a burst of rain,
each pulse a wave, each cry a blade of grass.
i gathered leaves to knit your spine to mine
still, you ask me to go. let you rest, please.
it’s cold now, but i can’t leave. there is still
space -- i can shove my skin to the side, i
don’t need warmth, just your breath in shapes that twist
and last like old, old tree trunks. like the one
from the brown mossed house we loved. that yard where
you’d save worms from the rain, hold them and all
their hearts -- hold those small, wet lives in your palms.
Josephine Blair is a 27-year-old writer, who recently relocated from Miami to New York. Her work has been featured in Epiphany Magazine, Soliloquies Anthology, Meniscus, Allegory Ridge and elsewhere. In February 2019, she was awarded a fellowship with Brooklyn Poets. You can learn more about her by visiting www.josephineblair.com.