By Zachary Lundgren
Half-naked and hungry against the backfence
I try to open you
with my mouth. It’s dark
until lightning leeches the air. Your left hand
vices my leg to the muscle. Drowning,
we let the water fill our throats.
The sky probably means something, but we don’t
look. There’s a dance we practice
down here, the only steps we care
to know – tracing our heels in the dirt,
these marks no one
will ever read
Zachary Lundgren received his MFA in poetry from the University of South Florida and his BA in English from the University of Colorado at Boulder and grew up in northern Virginia. He has had poetry published in several literary journals and magazines including The Louisville Review, The Portland Review, Barnstorm Journal, The Adirondack Review, and the University of Colorado Honors Journal. He was nominated for the 2012 AWP Intro Journals Award and was awarded the Estelle J. Zbar Poetry Prize in 2012. He is also a poetry editor for Sweet: A Literary Confection and a founding editor of Blacktop Passages.