That One Dream—the Quick of Me.
skin. In this instant she must feel the pulse
of my flesh—breasts like clocks, only just
fully wound. The whole of me ticks,
says, not talk, not talk, dear god, just take.
Up Here Where the Heat Rises
I dance and my sweat clings—
stays between my breasts and under
wires. Up here, where the heat rises,
it also sticks: holds. So that
the memory of the sweat
and the sweat
are still the same thing
but cooling. Even in winter
this attic will be the hottest place.
It is only
if we make it so. Shake it so. Sway each hip—
and bend at the knee to it. I am only
a dancer and what happens
up here is only music.
Hannah Baker-Siroty lives with her wife and daughter outside of Boston. She has degrees from University of Wisconsin-Madison and Sarah Lawrence College. Some of her poetry can be found in Best New Poets 2012, Cactus Heart and Each Moment a Mountain. She is an Assistant Professor of writing at Pine Manor College and when she can find the time, she is working on a series of poems about the Vice-Presidents of the United States. Learn more about Hannah here.
