sultry as an Egyptian's exhale.
Nothing stirred but firefly wings
and our gentle fingers, figuring
at the throb and pulse that electrified
such small bodies with sparks.
Their glimmer laced the lake's edge
like a necklace, like lookout smoke,
and we drifted tranquil within, at peace
with each other, our unwearied lips.
The water was blue-black beneath us,
a veiled mirror underneath the cloak
of sky, light discovering light
only when we moved.
-- by Emily Brisse,
originally published in The Talking Stick,
Vol. 20, Editor's Choice award