Published on June 12, 2025
There turned out to be no fogged streetlamp
anointing us. No tender words
or familiar song to soundtrack this memory.
None of the busied birds
that appear in our other poems.
Instead, our final kiss
was close-lipped
and quick,
as you climbed
on top of my morning-breath body.
Our movements easy and silent,
as if we had finally
formed a habit.
Author Bio:
Danielle Garland (she/her) is a writer, science communicator, and feeding therapist from southern Appalachia who spends time thinking about grief, the intimacy of movement, and the fragility of narrative. Her work has been previously published or is upcoming in Ninth Letter, Empty House Press, Susurrus Magazine, and others. Find her on Instagram @_daniellegarland