by Aisling Cruz

I heard them all singing 
            as the cups were passed.

But really, I was somewhere else.
            Even now, I am somewhere else. 

Warm rain falls on my skin, fragrant
            with foretaste of a promised bow:

the lemon of the yellow,
            iridescent mango coastlines,

kiwi bleeding berry
            bleeding concord bleeding wine.

The tearing of the heavens 
            tastes so terribly right. Again,

I am somewhere, covered
            in lace: soft linen stitched

to flowers, the air of birdsong, 
            sanded dollars. Stretched

against the sunlight drinking 
            sugared ice for hours. Somewhere

woodwinds interleaf to breathe
            on endless water. Somewhere,

I am out there, catching pearls
            and sifting sapphire, sailing
	
on the luscious curl of cracking 
            alabaster. Somewhere I am isles

and inlets wed by blooming
            springs, resplendent 

emeralds shining, 
            drawing on the deep.

---

Aisling Cruz is a Midwest-based poet and artist. Her work has most recently appeared in Oyster River Pages, Penumbra, and The Pointed Circle. When she isn’t composing poetry, you might find her whipping up a new dessert recipe or meandering through the woods.