I once made love in the green corn.
Isinglass, the tassels looked clear
as that, and phosphorescent. My back
in the middle of an empty field, rubbed
dry on August leaves leaving imprints
on my flesh like scales. Sturgeon
have none. No scales, that is. But sex?
They spawn at twenty near Lake Champlain,
spindle-bodied and sultry in the estuaries.
From New England to Lake Superior,
the blood red moon. I, too, familiar with
the widening sky, gaped into a morphology
of fragmentation. Riverbed. Stream. Cassiopeia.
Branch of tree. Once, on a rock robed in light
in the desolate Adirondacks, I siphoned
a Methuselah, grew sleepy. Mornings, I gather
what I can. Unhook the curved lure from
my lip, walk into another season, smoldering.
Originally from Pennsylvania, Alicia Hoffman now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. Author of Railroad Phoenix (Aldrich Press), she has recently published poems in journals such as Radar Poetry, A Minor Magazine, Softblow, Hamilton Stone Review, Watershed Review, and elsewhere.