"At 39,000", “Requiem", "Schoolbus", and "Icebox Intimacy" by Sofia Bagdade

At 39,000

he turns to say

the moon always

falls to Earth and 

instead of words

I web my fingers

to the darkness 

and fill so wide

with light to say

we are always

touching

Requiem 

Another blue 

screen slices 

the night with 

ice skates and

gelid currents, 

how empty river

arms fling to 

a frozen sheet—

those flapping goose

wings and sharp 

twists of blade, those

rows of bare trees

quivering in stark

light, waiting

for children with

red gloves to hang

ornaments and tinsel

from their gentle, 

tired, fingertips, how

quietly a door 

creaks with bad 

news like even 

the hinges hold 

grief for the noise 

to follow

Schoolbus 

Girls stand

by nine, morning

sweet with snap-

open lunch boxes

and pale shoes 

scuffed with doll 

dust, with their

open lashed eyes 

In her quilts 

the wind on 

the top floor 

sounds like wolves, 

white lacing 

night as needle 

threads seam or ear

lobe with shine—

how I adorn my 

cheeks with a shade

called plum or 

loveliness or 

watch my legs spread in 

wonder

When did this brisk

air turn so bodied, our

arms magnets to 

scoop long limbs

from the concrete, 

did this wide mouth 

turn vessel to 

surprise or my voice

mistaken for a cry 

in the flat lands?

A wild, sharp 

beg for the 

cracked window 

Icebox Intimacy 

Sometimes silence

is a doorway 

and your

bare body presses

gold against the

frame. Jutting hips

pale to your closed

lips, the freezer 

door open and the 

whole room 

ice-kissed. 

My hands rich 

with blackberries, purple

gums, knuckles stained

from scrubs. I have

primed fingers to

pick frozen bodies

from the shelf and

watch fruit fall to 

softness in my palms.

A birth in reverse—

small, ripe, things, 

destined to thaw 

Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, Red Weather, and The Basilisk Tree. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.