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Just the New Year

When the new year arrives
wrapped in snow,
she thinks nothing
of the phone call
or my voice
or how it will change
when I’m pressed up
against her back, my tongue
knocking at her ear.
She is not thinking
of the alphabet’s wonders,
the shy way
I stack letters
to deliver her name,
ask if she remembers
our meeting
in one long breath.
The new year just changes
hands, and with palms
spread open I will come
to define her body, pushing
the spaces of what she knows
like new teeth cutting
gums, little flares of bleeding.

Sandra Yannone

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