A body’s warmth is felt / most consciously as it wanes.

Photo by Kristian Seedorff / Unsplash

by Eric Cline

When we were nineteen or twenty we walked a trail I do

not know the name of and do not care to. At its mouth

there were others, down its throat still some but fewer; by

the time we tripped between its ribs we were the only

people in sight, sound, touch, smell, or taste. Do not

misunderstand me; our bodies were not that which we

perceived, save as omissions

in the grand nothing. We observed the traditions of men

who have loved men before us. A body’s warmth is felt

most consciously as it wanes. To tell the truth you led me

where awe clutched our voices. Ribs are not conducive to

being birthed from, but thrum pleasantly regardless.

Atop the bridge, in lieu of return, you showed me how to

go: breeze, drop, shale.

Eric Cline is a poet. His chapbooks include his strange boy eve (Yellow Chair Press, 2016), something farther across the ocean (Throwback Books, 2017), cicada shell: life in a queer body (Tenderness Lit, 2018), and The Temporary (forthcoming from Glass Lyre Press). A more extensive bibliography can be found at https://ericclinepoet.neocities.org/