Lauren Goodwin Slaughter

Forces sky down

like a French press

over the boil. Constant cloud

covers thunder—lightning

but no rain—a tease without

the reprieve of a drop—

lonely as the kiss you want

to, but don't need.

Question: should I slip

on my slip and rush this

flight or wait full blushed

for the warning…

Say the black road

is a bleached crest raveling

the one distance

meant for you (all of us).