by Willa Stonecipher
My love is a city, and I must confess
That the manholes scream sinner,
That the trams resound symphonic screeches,
Lurid and naked in primeval chords,
That the common quiet alights
With luminous smears of unshaded windowpanes.
That I only take lovers who live off the Red Line,
Nameless in my words, soulfully,
He makes pilgrimage to my lips,
A parted shrine and honeycomb clenched
Between my teeth, solely
His girl, unfurling from the garden walls
Wherein I sat on a bench once,
Twice, and again his girl.
Willa Stonecipher is a medieval historian-in-training at Harvard University. In her spare time, she writes poetry and goes on long walks through the cities of Cambridge and Boston.