Quarry Lake

by Lillian Sickler

I found you in the watery light  of St. Michael’s parking lot as it bent inside the    kitchen. it was mineral, more a hum than a gasp.  you were tense by the window, sucking on    the pit of an olive. I just didn’t want  to tell you that    salt did not originate in the ocean  but rather from rocks older than the moon.    this memory comes in through the front door, hard  and flashy as nickels. I am still afraid    of the half-dead wolf. I still guard the pear-soft  foals, all I can    think of is how you filled my chest with  your hands, making love to me with your mouth open    while mine was pinched  closed like a change purse.    all I’ve become is taken up by the high  crescendo of missing you, tight and long    the way steam cuts through a hollow metal  pipe. I pass a collapsed mine, I come to    the edge of a quarry and miss  the whole world.    my hands smell of horses, their breath  dark and feathery


Lillian Sickler is a writer and poet with a Bachelor's Degree in Comparative Literature from the University of Massachusetts. Her work has been included in numerous poetry magazines and journals including Noble / Gas Qtrly, Cosmonauts Avenue, Vagabond City, and Ghost City Press. Her microchapbook, 'Incredibly Close & Perfect', was published through Ghost City Press in June 2019.