Connor Thorpe

the sun cracks

and rains in shards

through a grove of

slouching pines


where our bodies bathe

in amber pools 

and rest in beds

of stinging nettles


and we take turns

crushing jewelweed

into the welts

that bloom scarlet 

across our backs


watching mare’s tails

spin endlessly like 

a hypnotist’s spiral 

while we wait for

the sky to burst


our fingers entangled

like lovebugs

until night spills

from a wound

in the blue 


and even after all

I’ve done and 

even though the ghost

of my affairs

lives under your skin


you still tilt my head

and help me drink 

the last of our wine

from your cupped palm


as every flower in

the garden drones:

something terrible 

has happened to us

Connor Thorpe lives in Vancouver, Canada. His work has appeared in the Antigonish Review (#177 and #189).