Poetry by Connor Fisher

I held your head underwater in my dream. I kept 
your head with me always. Coin in my pocket. I am talking
about the crisp blue of the sky after a rainstorm. It’s fall,
and leaves become spectators. I am talking about  
their refusal to commit a single action. When the package 
arrived, when the afternoon light left its station, she  
put on her only masquerade and went for a drive. The afternoon 
light breaks itself like the boundless radius of the sun. It 
breaks and breaks itself and nothing turns to mud. She told me 
which pine tree was alive, which hole under the house was
hungriest. Maybe the white wine talked. Maybe eggshells 
are hormones. Her breasts have never been covered with 
ash but refract every other fold of flesh. In the wind, in the endless
wind, I cup water in my little hands, a leaf dangles from its bough, and
a magpie shows me its secret ribs through evening’s darkness.

Connor Fisher is the author of the chapbooks The Hinge (Epigraph Magazine, 2018) and Speculative Geography (Greying Ghost Press, forthcoming 2020). He has an MFA from the University of Colorado at Boulder and a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and English from the University of Georgia. His poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Typo, the Colorado Review, Tammy, Posit, Cloud Rodeo, and the Denver Quarterly.

Photo by Jordan Stewart on Unsplash