but I’m only beginning at 27. One summer I stepped through
a nest of copperheads.
I didn’t realize there is nothing more dangerous than a home
until it coiled, tightened, rattled;
smelled the coyote in my bones, the sin instead of marrow,
the claw and crouch
and locked the windows. I swiveled through the cracks and
on the other side he asked,
Are you wild canyon or wood?
There’s a little light left
on the bed that your shadow hasn’t softened.
Sheet edges crinkle as I secretly watch you dress your
bare back in a cloak
of sun. Each freckle
a separate star on a galaxy I can touch. You’ll leave
for work and I’ll pretend to sleep through your kiss
that orbits in a spiral
of hours—a wax and wane
of our re- membering into that single system elliptical
and aligned. Where our atoms swirl, collide, and collide.
When you close the door
I whisper, meet me here.
And rose fingered dawn draws the helical path.
Chloe Roberson Wofford is a Ph.D. candidate in the Creative Writing program at The University of Southern Mississippi where she teaches English, and works as an associate editor of PRODUCT Magazine. She earned her MFA from Lindenwood University, and her work has been published in Bella Grace Magazine. She currently lives in Chatom, Alabama with her dogs, Zelda and Sid, and husband Clint.