Geographies of a Lover, by Sarah de Leeuw

this tender wound is my missing your body, standing on a lake shore with the sun at my back we meet in the wet heat of summer when leaves appear like water evaporating and trees are breathing yellow haze in a southern ontario sky, pine trees perishing by the millions in northern british columbia a landscape as raw red and dying as quick thrusts, the flashes of light, shelves of turquoise ice sun-slivered blue, shards stacked in a skeena river’s throat, when you wet two fingers with spit and slip them inside invisible passages imbedded in the lava flow and fire travels through to the rocky mountains and down again into the prairies, rest full on my ribs and lungs, pushed inward and catching halifax’s great fire and it stirs in you a great fear of evaporation and then a greater need to leave, yelling the possibility of muscles aching, stand too close, rub me because i want you to, breast on elbow one hand touching my neck your breath on my lips we do nothing at all but talk of weeping willow branches, defoliated, wide like the horizon after sunset reflects a city glowing in the distance pale blue-red haze on grey clouds, like my want to fill you with my tongue and teeth and fingers so open your mouth against my back against my ass loose enough that you work yourself in, and i too come apart, trembling.

*Jacket copy was assembled using text from the book.

ISBN-13: 978-1-897126-78-3

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