When I Knew (Aubri Kaufman)

June: her skin is warm in the spot sun can reach

through the windowpane’s right upper quadrant

like lips to a thigh

it rests

like cheek to navel

it melts.

It does not permeate or penetrate

it uncurls, softer than the pillow down


until it reaches her

resting there

careful to preserve, to perceive

and not persuade. It lands imperceptibly;

she doesn’t even notice,

and I never tell her.


Aubri Kaufman (she / her) is a poet and a trauma counselor from New Jersey. She is an avid hiker and a novice beekeeper. Her work can be found in HAD, Pink Plastic House, The Daily Drunk (where she was nominated for BOTN), Eunoia Review, and others. She definitely wants to talk to you on Twitter (@aubrirose). 


image: “Sunlight:” Sean O’Leary is a writer from Melbourne who loves taking photos.