Grace Sanford
Tribunal of Light
I unwrap March from a bed.
I treat a month like a luminary, and,
like a luminary, March lets her hair down.
I blindfold March and see her twitch. See her
tremble and ask me to not stop.
I share my spit with March. I taste our
salience and salinity. Tremble with March in a
mirror then, luminary-like, turn and look at her.
March is in the bathroom thinking about me.
I am choosing recipes for an occasion.
I treat a month like a luminary, and,
like a luminary, March lets her hair down.
I blindfold March and see her twitch. See her
tremble and ask me to not stop.
I share my spit with March. I taste our
salience and salinity. Tremble with March in a
mirror then, luminary-like, turn and look at her.
March is in the bathroom thinking about me.
I am choosing recipes for an occasion.
The Deck
i tell the deck, spill
fill me, please, with
any phrase
into the night
i bruise on
a secret
bum it, later,
black and
blue, from my pocket
before everything
on the deck she
prays like she’s wading
into the night
she waits
for a crow’s call to signal the day
a prayer
about this, she tells
me, thanks crows for
sounds crows make
when we fuck on
the deck the neighbors
see us
i feel like
glass
singing
a hand at
the mouth
the Neighbors Know
My Name words
change fucking
into the night
it leaves
the deck the same
fill me, please, with
any phrase
into the night
i bruise on
a secret
bum it, later,
black and
blue, from my pocket
before everything
on the deck she
prays like she’s wading
into the night
she waits
for a crow’s call to signal the day
a prayer
about this, she tells
me, thanks crows for
sounds crows make
when we fuck on
the deck the neighbors
see us
i feel like
glass
singing
a hand at
the mouth
the Neighbors Know
My Name words
change fucking
into the night
it leaves
the deck the same
Grace Sanford holds a BA in sociology from Wesleyan University. Grace lives in New York.