by Jacob DeVoogd
Moisture of your navel split in two,
willing itself beyond the depths of alone
before it is mended, forged into a tone
louder than footprints.
Hellebore roses pleading with the glue
laced underneath your eyelashes,
yearning to taste mauve
before color explodes.
Moans have more to do with affirmation
than feeling, more latitude
than the ballooning goosebumps tinted on your breasts
that hope to, once again, outrun misappropriation.
Crowned nighthawk of your heart
I ache to grab before waking.
When lost is a single proton away from amber,
you are predawn.
Jacob DeVoogd is an MFA candidate at Western Michigan University where he serves as a graduate instructor. Born in Detroit, raised in Chicago, Jacob currently lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan.