your name
always tastes
like a palindrome

across my tongue minnowing
pond wide words      stained red as pomegranate arils
the sun dies between us      painting ripples aquarelles

what is left to say when there is no way forward      that doesn’t feel like retreat
when clouds lit citrus bright over lakeside cypress      hold that dream i can’t whisper

B. Luke Wilson grew up in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains and his fiction and poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Moon City Review, LIT Magazine, Artemis Journal, and elsewhere. He is the assistant managing editor at Chestnut Review, and previously served at Blackbird Journal. Follow Luke @blukewilson and read more at blukewilson.com.