Air Of
—then lightly rubs the
inside of her wrist
to wrist the flower
fullness the furrows
like heirloom roses
or attar crushed from
weapons thrown aside
the century gone
as though bound now in
not shame not shyness
meanwhile and lace cuffs—
making scent circles—
Phrases in italics are from "Black and Copper in a Crush of Flowers" by Carl Phillips.
Copyright © 2018 David Baker. Reprinted with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review, Autumn 2018.