6:14 a.m.
A tease of sunlight slips through the curtains.
6:20 a.m.
I roll over, nestle my body in the hollow of
her silhouette. Still asleep, she pulls me closer.
7:29 a.m.
In my dreams, the mattress is surrounded
by water. This bed is a lifeboat.
8:06 a.m.
Touch, soft and slow. Loose with sleep,
each brush of her fingers stirs something
inside me. She presses harder. My mouth
opens like a flower.
8:13 a.m.
Dew droplets glimmer on the glass of the window.
I shiver into the space between rest and wake.
8:15 a.m.
She pulls want from the back of my throat,
coaxing me through its release. Use your words,
she says. Tell me what you need.
8:19 a.m.
If I can ask for this, I can ask for anything.
8:22 a.m.
I picture a peach, its skin giving way under
her thumb. She takes a bite. Sweetness trickles
down her chin.
8:28 a.m.
Outside, birds sing
their chorus. The day has just begun.
Sarah Horner is a writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. Her poetry and fiction are published in places such as Redivider, Palette Poetry, The Minnesota Review, Door Is A Jar, and Lunch Ticket. In her work, she acknowledges the complexities of desire, queer femininity, and our existence as beings with the intrinsic need to eat, play, touch, explore, and form companionships. She is a recipient of the 2024 Walter Nathan Prize for Undergraduate Creative Writers.
