in 156 days i will be with you.
all swans are white, all persimmons orange
all apples deep red, all sunsets contain
the exact shade of pink the hospital i was born in
used to make hats for baby girls.
avalanches are innocuous,
baby girls are innocuous.
7,783 days ago i was a baby girl, bigger than
a matchstick and bigger than a mountain.
in 156 days we will be settled on a turquoise bench
on a hill.
no hummingbirds sing.
the leaves of maple trees are bigger than my face.
pancakes are bigger than my face.
plates are bigger than my face.
in 156 days we will put on a record –
records always skip –
and this one repeats the hum of dust at the very beginning
until you cradle the needle under index finger
and set it straight
record a plate bigger than my face.
there is nothing that is not a persimmon
that oranges the same way my heart does.
there is no hummingbird that tuning fork rings
the way my heart does.
there is a special way to put 156 days
or a mountain
in a pocket
so easily – i did it once. they are the size of a matchstick.
in 156 days we will eat pancakes.
you will accidentally let maple syrup dry on your chin.
Clair Dunlap grew up just outside Seattle, Washington, where she started writing poems at the age of six. She spends her free time missing the ocean from the Midwest, making vegan cheese, and hosting impromptu dance parties in her kitchen. Her work is published or forthcoming in Up the Staircase Quarterly, Words Dance, BLIND GLASS and more. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org