women. writers.

Poetry: "Untitled" by Allison Lee

That summer we made love in the middle of the day,
listened to Bruce Springsteen anthems,
watched coral light seep past the curtains and into our eyes.

Sweat uncoiled from our fingerprints,
wetting our fingertips, salt
dry on our skin, like the blood of my miscarriage,
a red-lipped stain swirled onto the sheets.

The secrets between us congealed and hardened into 
mysterious bruises hovering under our skin,
dividing and multiplying, like the would-be child we lost,
in empty places that summer.

That summer you would touch my stomach,
your eyes half-sad, and half-relieved.

A slow-motion summer of little deaths
that we scattered like beads across the floor.
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