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By Sandra Yannone From Issue No. 2

These are declarations of the most
intimate kind. The ones you kiss

into your pillow through the concentric night
until you wake to feel the presence of the beloved

arriving from the other room
even though she is three states or eleven miles

away. In this moment of half-lucid dream,
the distance stands before you

irrelevant as desired new boots. Alone
in bed, which side to exit to the floor of today

matters less. You’ve made the choice
to turn toward a sacred face, a turn

toward your own longing to live, to meet the day
head on, not so much a collision, as a delicate

fusion of strangers now becoming known.
In this compressed space, the new feels misplaced

like keys lost for weeks. Beloveds,
punch your time cards, your optimism

tickets with restless tears to clock the moment
you tattoo her present name to your forehead,

a reminder that you’ll see each other with wonder
each morning, look in the mirror, and remember

that the beholder is the eye of grace.

About Sandra Yannone More From Issue No. 2