and I will say
come, will you make domestic with me?
I’ve had a hard time being alone lately—
I swallow this image: we are
cleaning out jamjars
my shoulder pressed against your rib
to fill up with tadpoles.
Wash off the lines on my palms
with momentary soap, find pink hands in the suds,
and I’ll have to ask,
please, don’t
wrinkle your fingers against my face;
your warm mouth—fragile and tender
is unabating marmalade
and enough—
You said, This is what happens when I hold you for so long.
the moment
hangs still
burning the way
bees trapped
in amber
keep vigil—
How to keep you in this chrysalis!
this is what I’ll struggle with
so let me take a bag off you
push a honey-lime lozenge between your teeth
notice the way you’ve eaten my onions and
forget craving resin—
Learn to love when I’m no longer a child.
Still—
Amphibians regress
and I go back to summer-lush shoulders
I go back to not knowing how to much there is to lose
I go back to no legs wading
safe in the jamjar. And you—
the water never taught me how to swim
—you will then
rub algae on my lips
bird-feed me the honey
and assemble these round body bits
just to incubate my fingers in yours.
Natalie Diaz says she never knew she was also a lamp
I never knew I was also a tadpole until
you put me in the sun
and I grew all these extremities.
Writer | Venumi Gamage ’26 | vthotagodagamage26@amherst.edu
Editor | Taylor Hoganson ’29 | thoganson29@amherst.edu