Treehouse

Lena Gluck

I might see her,
so I wear big earrings, bright colors.

It doesn’t matter whether she likes them,
only that they give her something to say
or touch.

All morning wet air sweetens the world
on my lips, and by the time I see her
it’s raining.

Just inside the doorway, with her,
I am safe like a tent in the woods.

But she doesn’t notice me;
my coat covers my clothes.

I call, spring buds opening in my throat,
tongue covered in pollen and lily petals.

I wrap my arms around her like a blanket,
and she holds me close like a campfire.
This crowded building is a wide wilderness
that the rest of our lives can’t touch.

She smiles, says,
why did you hug me with that wet coat on?

then walks out into the rain.

Lena Gluck’s writing has appeared in the Great Lake Review. She is an assistant librarian and teaches the Young Authors Academy at the Downtown Writer’s Center in Syracuse. Her writing can be found on the blogexperienceswithlanguage.wordpress.com

See Lena’s list of 5 Things tomorrow.