By Andrea Scarpino
Listen, no one will tell you this
but me. Open hand of the sky,
Earth’s molten heart, what happens
in between. The field grown tall
with corn, the blanket spread,
your mouth, your hands in mine.
Lights flicker in the house,
a slow procession, relatives.
No one will tell you this. Orion’s
scorpion, the cooling of the night.
© 2007 prickofthespindle.com
Andrea Scarpino is a graduate of The Ohio State University's MFA program. She currently writes and teaches in Los Angeles, a fact that fills her with gratitude every time she checks the Ohio weather forecast.