when i am alone
i can feel the earth turning
on its molten hinges.
the firmament knows not
that it is being taken
from the smell of body-burning grass
beside salty, sparkling pavement
that i drag tongue along back
to—
i am alone
beside a hundred others’ sweat
looking down at the snowy
blanket ground of clouds
from an airplane window.
i will be alone
for the next six weeks,
while her body flies
from city to country
before taking mine again
in a sweet, hot desert.
we will stop the turning
of the earth with ours.
Rachel Shpuntoff is a college student in the Boston area studying education, theater, and creative writing. She grew up in Buenos Aires, Argentina, to an American father and an Argentinian mother, and loves to travel. Her work has been previously featured in Laurel Moon magazine
