Katie Ashworth Chamblee is a first year at Yale Law School. She grew up in North Carolina and studied poetry at Swarthmore College.
That spring I was coated in a film of magnolias.
I walked down streets cobbled with pennies
we'd thrown as children,
each filmed with wishes.
I could barely see you behind the smell of magnolias.
You were treading the air,
a coin through the water.
You were possible against the air,
cool coins against my eyes.
Into pillows of air I said
Take this. Take this.
You tied my love around your wrist
like a balloon,
Take this, into pillows of air,
lungs ballooning against them,
I offered it to you, as though I had made
my own beautiful, functioning bloom.
it floated, a balloon
a loose period behind you,
you'd duck under
as the sky,
with absolutely nothing in its hands.