Iceberg with a Hole
Green light bounces off your shoulders
Those slinking and slight mounds
Shrugging themselves into
A silver ether.
Aloe couldn’t touch you,
Couldn’t close and couldn’t dab
That simple, hollowed hole
Smelling like dirt kicked into clouds.
And yet there is a shallow, black spot
A crook in the bow of your neck
Where I think I might be able
To sit and slumber and rest.
Amanda McQuade neither confirms nor denies anything. Her work has recently appeared, or is forthcoming, in Aquapolis, Lethe, Pregnant Moon Review, and Glass. Currently, she resides in Los Angeles with her husband, Matt.