Will Simescu

Fire Island Rustic Bakeshop

I have read too much about eyes. Tell me about
the creases in your fingers as they slice pears.
 
Hoarfrost glazes each branch in Kincaid Park.
My cheeks tingle in the brittle air.
 
We used to live above the bakery. At night
they turned the ovens on, and it got so hot.
 
After a while we stopped noticing how good it smelled.
We should have had babies together; I know that now.
 
The hills of the Chugach are caramel, emerald,
fire engine red. A bore tide creeps up Turnagain Arm.
 
They say Harmonides died of excessive blowing.
The sound of the aulos, which he played so well, is lost to time.
 
I thought you left, she says, her face backlit
through the screen door. Here I am.

Will Simescu (he/him) grew up in Northern Michigan and spent six years as a language analyst in the U.S. Air Force. He currently lives in Colorado with his dog Lily and studies Restoration Ecology at Colorado State University. He was a finalist for the Ember Chasm Review 2020 Summer Poetry Contest and a semi-finalist for Nimrod International's 2020 Francine Ringold Awards for New Writers. His poems have also appeared in the Louisville Review, The Rupture, Slippery Elm and Plainsongs Magazine, among others. @willsimescu