cyclical

by Stephanie Shlachtman

Moonflower opens, lays bare a

profusion of petals and self-possession,

softens puckers between secrets

until trumpeter swans announce first light

on the water; a crumpled bloom

regretting moths that stayed too long to

witness her wild side. And the

Sun — naked, famished, whimsy fueling

her very core — she floods the

morning, a siren beckoning shipwrecked

sky, and I feast on figs and honeydew

until my stomach hurts.

Stephanie Shlachtman teaches elementary school in New York. She holds a B.A. in Psychology and an M.S. in Education. Her poetry has appeared in Rattle and Long Island Quarterly.