October 22, 2014

Alina Rios


One morning you took my hand
and wouldn’t let go.

Barefoot and hungry,
you pulled me
through winter’s cold
and summer’s dust
through promise of spring
and sadness of autumn.

Through sweetness
of our first dinner
and saltiness
of our first fight.

You opened closets
and let the bones fall
where they may.

We waded
dark tunnels’
rushing waters
till we shivered
our hearts raw.

You helped me
out of my nightgown
and looked at me,
and saw.

Then, on the roof
above our first bed,
you turned me toward the moon,
full and maddening,
held my head
to keep my gaze steady.

Go ahead and howl, you said,
and didn’t shrink back when I did.


Born in St. Petersburg, Russia, Alina Rios now breathes in the coffee-scented air of Seattle, edits technical documentation, and reads her work at local open mics. She was recently short-listed for the Gulliver Travel Grant. Her poetry has appeared in Mused, Rust & Moth, Neon and other fine places.

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