Ari Wolff


Palmsweat rests lightly

on my shoulder. I know

when to talk, when to dig.

To rip from the roots, dusk

flowers. Lick the petals.

Spit be my glue. Color

the sound doves make.

I’m building a boat

the air can sail. I’m

lying in the cold

air with dark bits

of someone’s

year beneath

my nails.

Ari WolffAri Wolff’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Potluck, The Offing, Whiskey Island, and Storm Cellar. She lives in Brooklyn, where she teaches art and preschool.

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