SUSAN WISMER

From the Edge

one hand firm on dark earth
flattened grass
the other is hanging
sends fingers
to touch

under the lip
call it
       hag

what remains
sunrise, lichen, tree trunk,
semblance of mountain, rounded
cheekbones

traced
contours: your face, my lips
our mouths, how we seek
open seawater, dark metal salt
for the tongue, volute
the shell of your ear
pearled
         singing

from the shimmering edge
of the world
        these last years.