Venice


            the hardest thing 

about this memory is 
how it keeps coming back
 
              to me, still 

holding warmth like peach tea 
left out in midday sun like 
the midday sun that came
 
             floating back

across the canal white rose petals
 
             skitter-scattered
 
across the ruffled surface 
released by hesitant hands and
 
             coming home 

shivering. i watch from the edge 
of the silver water, 
rest my head on your shoulder and my fingers 

              on your back
 
and breathe in 
that chamomile green scent that 

             lingers in your hair 

and i listen
as you read about love, 
about lighthouses,

	stranded on salt-strewn cliffs,

about loss. 

             your voice comes 

slipping through your lips not 
like silk but a thin threaded sheet across my back 
soft and 

            grating and lukewarm and 

i think i could listen forever and 
i think about lacy white roses and 
i think about the way 

              you leave 

primrose yellow handprints on 

            everything you touch, 

coming down as fawn spotting along my jaw 
and my thighs and my calves and the back 
of my neck and scattered across pages, and yes, 
they still shimmer on the paper and sometimes on 
my skin, 

            and yes, 

this memory still tea-kettle whistles from the other room 
peach-warm and 
waiting for me to 

            come back

Anna Thomas is a creative writing and environmental science student at Western Washington University. She loves to sit down and write poetry when the urge strikes but is always happiest outside. Her work is inspired by queerness and the beauty of physical spaces.