On Resurrection Sunday
I unearth a book about
urban foraging, every word
a prompt for lovers.
I nibble the yellowed
corners, the book’s moldy
thighs, and I think,
through the hot flashes of summer,
of the way your hands will look
next year: darkening, curled,
flowers in black dirt.
Maybe if we stay here long enough
we’ll forget the powdery forms
of our overcrowded loneliness and
Crystal Stuvland is a poet, a nonfiction writer, a writing consultant, and a tutor. She is finishing up her undergraduate studies this spring at Boise State University before pursuing her MA in Rhetoric and Composition.