Written by: Julia Ingolfsdottir

The colors in your sweater
do not grow here
but bloom without regard
in the mirror of your cheeks

We ran with arching strides
through seas of igneous poetry
written for our electric white lashes
Our layers of sturdy bone

And yes, there were times
we nearly escaped the snap of the metallic sky
the same confessor
behind matronly curtained hills

the only words to tie me here
are the mouthful that rattle my cup
yet I can always paint myself
miles deep beneath this anchor