Our Governor Does Another Interview on Gay Marriage

Maddie Barone

Walking up the hill to our apartment,  
as the South Carolina spring wanes full
throated into simmered summer nights,
I watch you pink cheeked 
and laughing, your moving hands 
slipping in and out of slight shadows, 
humid air a shawl draped across our 
moving shoulders. You say something 
about the echo of rainfall, the heavy 
press of delayed weather on your face 
half-turned to the sky, the incoming storm
rumbling barrel chested against this city’s 
quieted noise, while around us the freckled 
trees bend towards the dirt, their branches

outstretched hands flexing against the stilled
clouds. Later, when you turn in your sleep, 
uncombed hair a shifting shape on our shared
pillow, I wonder at the small echoes of your
own, the slight reverberation of your leg
stirring soundlessly against mine,
your hands flashing as you skin oranges 
at our kitchen table, the flesh plump
and glistening finely, juice trailing from 
finger to wrist, the whole room caught  
in this moment of holding its breath, 
the touch of your shoulder pressed 
against mine lingering until 
you press again.

Maddie Barone is a poet from South Carolina. Their work has appeared in The Madison Review, Miracle Monocle, Pedestal Magazine, and elsewhere. They have a cat called Goose.