Her Last Letter
Amber Warnke

night is talking, you 
slow-voiced winter sky.  

words seep through
salt-cracked lips.

water sieves through the nightskin.

it's cold and her mouth keeps moving.  
oval-bodied sounds, such thin corners.

crick  crack
sounds of detachment.

wind severs stillness,  
leaves tear from trees.

the spaces between swell
and ache a lonely minute.

in spaces she is a dry
silhouette.  a kink in her back
bends her, keeps her bending.

sweat pools at a fingertip and she 
writes her name in the air:
Naomi.

dissection is her final flourish, and
she gives herself to us in pieces:

blood, bone, and eye.

Making Weather
Amber Warnke

autumn presses herself against us, gathers us
underneath her gray-blue coat in wide, cool arms of sky

leaves fall in october-moist sighs until the ground goes
soft in recognition.

and today, today is for bare toes in thick dirt
my back arched like an umbrella to protect your skin 

in the rain like sudden dancing drops
a thousand tiny dancers on a light streaked window

and the darkness of a night long-coming just
tumbling in quiet rivers

a blanket for our bed, the meeting place of sound and silence,
and you to guide me through.

Movements in Autumn
Amber Warnke

you are thick as autumn tonight.
our bodies echo the season:
redbrown fingers and
goldgreen lips.

night moves like old, dark curtains.
its frayed edges tickle my skin:
round silver moans and
flickering sighs.

light comes in brown:
honey smiles and
amber-colored kisses.

the paths of our skin are well-worn.
we walk barefoot along riverbeds and wake
damp and sweet-smelling, like wet earth.