Amy Crane Johnson is the sole proprietor of Syllables Freelance Writing in Green Bay, Wisconsin. The varied work of freelance writing, especially developing health and wellness materials for professional sports teams (including the Milwaukee Brewers and the Boston Red Sox among others) and psychiatric hospitals, gives her access to free game tickets and a multitude of in-patient services. She spends her spare time searching for a place in the woods in which to live deliberately. She's also the mother of two children, a husband and a dog. Amy has appeared most recently in Sheepshead Review and Alsop Review.
It is winter
here and hard
to remember warmth.
Tonight a comforter
heavy with
sleep
encourages dreams,
the soft uncurling
of bodies
easy and languid
as August nights,
the slow
give and take.
We open ourselves
beneath a sky full
of moist
summer stars, pluck
them like small, white figs and eat
until our
bellies are full as the moon.
Each season
has its own
constellations
that shift position, move
in their
heavenly places,
fall to earth in their own time.
These distant stars
wink
in feathered
dreams
but remain cool
and tasteless. This slumbering
quilt opens my
body
the way a hothouse lamp
forces an orchid.
In white heat
I reach
for you through the dark
bedroom air, feel the Koho chill.
It is still
winter here and I am always
hungry.
