Your voice is dried honeycomb, delicate and reminiscent of something thriving.
I hold you to my chest, can smell your sweat in the creases of your neck,
your fat, flat feet kicking my stomach after you’ve crawled into bed with me, somewhere
in the hazy glow of three a.m., head almost feverish, small puffs of breath making even
sleep feel like exertion. This is how I sometimes imagine you, those times when
you appear as a ghost, stark as newsprint, hair always cowlicked and inexplicably red
like the reality, the slick of you on my hand, coming away from my crotch;
you will always be more the blood of my body than anything, barely
a freckle of mass, only existing as a spectre, a pudgy hand on mine
pulling sharply away when the little boy playing beside my daughters at the playground
realizes he isn’t mine, wanders off to find the legs of his mother to hold.
Quinn Rennerfeldt earned her Bachelor’s in Creative Writing at the University of Colorado at Boulder and currently lives in San Francisco with her daughters, husband, and menagerie, though her heart belongs to Denver. Her work can be found in Slipstream, Cider Press Review, Bird’s Thumb, Sassafras, Progenitor, and BloodLotus, among others. Find her on twitter: @QuinnFairchild