Crooked Woods // Emma King
Magic Hour Naomi Scoville we were a polaroid that summersun drunk smiles blurring into the fuzzy corners of the half-finished three-by-three mural. you said you loved me under cross-stitched stars and the tick of fireflies, tongue curled around the words like they were the first peach of summer.
13
magic hour you called it, flocks of cicadas spinning phrases- the leaving soundbut you stayed, wheel spoke ankle hooked around mine. listen, you said, and we lay, quiet, against the lonely song of mimics.