Violet

Today I called you for the first time in a year 
& in the grass next to the sidewalk, I saw a violet 

withstand the overindulgent press of wind, 
& for the first time in a year you answered. 

Pause. Then, your voice low & willowy 
“here comes a storm, I’ve been waiting for it all day” 

It must be true, I know your waiting: electricity all over your body— 
in the hair that I spent full nights running fingers through 

on the cheetah-print loveseat at the goat farm 
(once, next to Luke, who you said I should fuck, so I did) 

When I say please come back & it comes out as 
“I guess the clouds are getting dark” you say 

I’ll never not love you but it comes out as 
"I’m rereading Gatsby” & I’m staring at that 

stupid violet, thinking of the time 
after the murder when you stripped 

me & bathed me under the hot water & 
I lay next to you all night, damp, reading

Li-Young Lee & feeling, now and then, your ribs 
under my fingers, the curve of you. 

I’ll do anything 
“It was nice to catch up.”

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Skylar Wampler
is a writer and artist based in Virginia. She engages with themes of love, loss, and the natural world. She is a recent graduate of the University of Virginia, receiving her B.A. both Poetry Writing and Global Sustainability. When she’s not creating art, she can be found spending time in nature, playing board games, and enjoying time with loved ones. She has been published in several literary journals including Simple Machines: Engines of Change, Sky Island Journal, Spires Intercollegiate Arts and Literary Magazine and Chomp Journal. More of her work can be found at www.skylarwampler.com and on instagram under the handle @skylar.wampler.

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