when the earth was flat

and ripe, and riddled with dew

like a newborn child,

the plains just rolled on forever

and savanna turned to tundra

with distance,

only the cold black ocean signifying

the beginning of the edge of the world

in your eyes I found northern Europe,

a muddy ice that split my gaze in two

in your legs, Africa

neat protective muscles that twitch

like a cheetah's, lightly

haired calves luminous

under a savagely red moon.

the two Americas lay side by side

in your heart,

itching with thirst and variation

proclaiming vastness

capable of translating

the scorn and cement of New York

to the feverish heat of Bogotá

but Asia was gathered in

your cupped hands, meekly

offering me tiny

yellow flowers

that came from a sunbeam that pierced 

central China

Australia, your hair, smelling of sweat

and sea-salt.

and a million tiny islands scattered

across the length of your back,

archipelagos hidden in your ribcage

Kauai and Oahu wink at each other,

twin landforms,

your kidneys.


but then the very earth shifted

collapsing mountains, swallowing valleys,

creating lakes and rivers that veined through

the hearts of these broken countries.

and seven lonely continents were born,

each one bitter and isolated

like faraway neighbors that detest a face

they have never seen


and now we stand here, love,

two brittle continents shaped

from the earth's selfish and nomadic urge

that she then passed on to man

and from then on, the whole world

couldn't stop moving, shifting

and migrating from place to place,


by every landscape, untouched

by every countryside.

oh, to forge ourselves back together

with crude glues and putties

as if we were a single creature.

you, a jumble of arms and legs

that don't quite fit together.

your palm on my shoulder,

my legs around your waist,

and every desperate gesture

to become one again.

for orin

up close your eyes

are like the insides of houses

gleaming, rich with silence

and sincerity

in the gray-blue advent of twilight

inaudible conversations around the dinner-table

while i walk with my hands in my pockets,

impatient to go home.

Hannah Allard grew up in a small industrial village in Connecticut and now is a junior philosophy major at Purchase College. She has been a lifetime writer but has not pursued publication. Hannah owns a digeridoo and enjoys hiking, debauchery and a variety of artistic pursuits

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