you can tell he hasn’t been
sleeping, he doesn’t look
his best.

night dies
in his eyes as
he whimpers

Hello, wooden arms
lift to my shoulders.
I don’t think the lime

is back, don’t press
the emergency
bar, look to exit.

I just hug him.
I just listen
like we’re friends

in a new place.
for me, today,
my head is transparent.

my eyes have the swamp
of the swan

the skyscrapers,
therefore I plant
a gardenia on his neck.

he flicks it off.
I look down.
remember recalcitrant

soil on my upper spine, long
ago. I wish I didn’t farm.
or try to.

but aren’t I now a harvest
of ears?
but he looked

with his canoe eyes,
looked under mine
and resolutely rendered

a flower
from his throat.
our hug

with arms of leaves.


Cameron Haramia is a California-born Hoosier who can be found on the dancefloor. He’s danced his way to Memphis, Mexico, and marine animals. Haramia’s poems have appeared in Construction Literary Magazine, Leopardskins & Limes, and Mobius: The Journal of Social Change.