Dear world, I am moisturized and waiting,
and yet you persist in trimming my roots
into blisters. I never did heal, we each
took our turns at crying in cubicles,
eating little muffins out of soggy
paper and dreaming of this. A handsome
man to lift our ankles up and over
his shoulders; for the time we would swallow
vitamins voluntarily; skin the
same, every day of our lives; nail polish
that stayed on, either side of the weekend.
But your sky has changed—autumn’s famous
breeze has died; on my back, below the caged
fluorescents of the gymnasium, pull
knees to my throat and ache with my own want
for it. The leaves scampered in its silence
and I felt a little of their fear—just
enough, tingling with it. 7 a.m. comes.

Zoe Dzunko is a doctoral student in creative writing at Deakin University and the author of three chapbooks, All of the Men I Have Never Loved (Dancing Girl Press, forthcoming 2014), Wet Areas (Maverick Duck Press, forthcoming 2014), and Bruise Factory (NAP, forthcoming 2014). She has published poetry in journals worldwide, some of which can be seen or is forthcoming in The Age, Going Down Swinging, Softblow, Banango Street, and The Scrambler.

Feature picture by François R. Caron

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