Issue 5, Winter 2008

Luna di Miele
by Sarah Sloat

Summer comes, all ache and yellow
flowers draped over landscapes.
Until this moment I thought

Siena was the color of a fire expired,
a burnt church, dark honey
and coal in the cordwood.

I lift my dress for you.
I lift up my paisley dress
and the Tuscan sky is blue.

The hem lets loose the moths
who lived, wintered in the threads.
They go from smoke to flame, rise

like the sunflowers rise
behind the walls
of the abbey garden.