Christine Case


The unknown of your body —
Curvature, expanse —
My eyes cityscape lanterns beckoning home

I am the day my touch
Is as familiar to you as your favorite sweater
Its cowl my lips upon your windpipe,
Your windpipe my muddled gasps
The canary in the coal mine
Of ecstasy


The fox thanked the boy for the color of the wheat.
A different life held the boy enraptured;
the fox knew this

(As when a tear runs over an unheeding kiss —
the lips insist on marking the moment,
wetted wistful or no)

The fox knew beauty would remain.
Perhaps you cannot build a home of human beings,
but of their scraps

As the wheat holds the hue of the boy’s hair, the fox knows the truth:
it is no less his home

(But in his less sure moments, he wonders at a cruel mystery —
how the beauty of the wheat that built them
could so easily become the straw they could not

Christine Case is a twenty-something stumbling her way through adulthood, forever distracted by stars, small flowers, and love stories.  

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