I.
Between you and me, something
buzzes. This is an old weight:
gravity twists magma upon itself.
The two-thousand-mile molten middle.
Little solar system spins
the core.
II.
My neck cranes to Sainte-Chapelle ceiling,
star sparked, stone arched.
Afternoon light shades jewel
on the fleur-de-lis
and my sneakers. From here,
I hear your first morning breath,
watch your six-hour late sunrise
over hills I saw last autumn.
Sub-Atlantic wires
tug my lips to your jaw
in my brain.
Bad breath. Morning
imagined. I remember:
your thick column of spine,
the arch between your shoulder blades,
the magnet pull
between us.
My stomach twists
against axis stretch.
III.
Seven centuries ago,
stoneworkers stacked limestone
on scaffolding.
Above them,
they saw the sun revolve
around a still,
metamorphic earth.
My phone buzzes with you.
I wonder how we could ever believe
in an earth that doesn’t spin.
Hailey Small, Wilmore, KY