Elizabeth Sackett earned a degree in English with a writing concentration from SUNY Geneseo, where she received the Lucy Harmon Award for Fiction Writing and was published in Gandy Dancer. She has also been published in Gravity Of The Thing, Fickle Muses, Neon Literary Magazine and Subprimal Poetry Art, and enjoys writing about women, folklore, and disappointment. She spends her spare time drawing pictures of bird skeletons.
She must stop comparing lovers to wildflowers
or bees or bears. He wears, perhaps, a coat
of rags and rugs to sit on the north star,
to stare at screens of snow-blue light.
He took her under a night tree once
and let her drape her hair all over
his neck. Back then, there was a secret
in her throat but even delicate paws
are clumsy. Write to me here, she said,
holding her skin aloft like an alien thing.
We can learn to ignore cars like beasts
through branches and kiss me your words
in green ink. Let me remember your breath
after years have shriveled between yellow
pages. And he left a kissing of the darkest
drench, letters of honey and water damp
and bright enough to feed the leaves and weeds