Sayuri Ayers

The Return

Miles from the Ohio border
I feel the cinching—
earthworm curling around my pinky,
meadow grass clasping my ankle.
From the Milky Way
you beckon, offer me 
shadow of clover garland
woven through Orion’s belt,
the dangling dagger. 
Under a childhood blanket,
we channeled names
of boys. With darkened eyes, 
you told me how you drowned
a black kitten. I lifted up 
my nightgown
to show you a bruise,
a pulsing nebula. 
We scooped darkness
from the moon’s silver bowl,
feeding each other. 
Still I taste the sweetness—
woven crowns, nectar drawn out
like thread. Driving home
I swerve around
the caved form of a badger.
Its belly, spilling
moonlight.  I reach
into the night to find you—
meadow like endless sea,
years sloughing off like petals.

Sayuri Ayers is a native of Ohio. Her prose and poetry appear in EntropyHobartThe Pinch, and others. Green Bottle Press released her chapbook, Radish Legs, Duck Feet, in 2016. You can find her at