By Terra Brigando

In the split second stitching when night greets the dawn, in that
seam, is where the pain resides. Shining white as teeth, this enamel
stutters open the day, creaks open this guilt. We sing as miniature
stuntman, flinging our bodies through the apologies of the afternoon,
the slight off-kilter yawning of space in the blue, blue sky. Sling
madness through evening, dust off that fine linen. The rooms we reside
in now we call home. Through the opening of atoms at nightfall,
splitting off of cells, we create what we do not know in the
moonlight. Tell your lovers to quit forsaking the dawn and your family
to carry forward the dead humbly and with purpose. For it’s our love
basking there in the streetlights; it’s your jaw that’s wishing
forward these words.

Terra Brigando recently received her Masters in English and Creative writing from Mills College. Her previous work can be found or is forthcoming in Fogged Clarity, apt, decomP, FourtyOunceBachelors, Chamber Four, and Word Riot.