SHIFTING LENSES

BETHANY CUTKOMP

Legs weary from our hike, we drifted from the trail 

to less-treaded dirt. Sat in pine needles knee-to-knee.

Inhaled each other’s breaths. Our cameras, tired of sky

and leaves discovered bits of wild in each other’s eyes.

There was a stillness in brown between spiderweb lashes.

Twigs and fur disguising snakes. Scorched wood from

forgotten blaze. When you blinked, pine cones stirred,

overturned by birds and breeze. Fungi thrived in pupil

pits where sunlight’s fingertips couldn’t reach. Among

freckles and skin existed biospheres condensed to irises.

Take back your chocolate and coffee metaphors. Brown

eyes like yours are this earth flecked in lichen and dew.

Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. One day, she hopes to write YA novels and befriend the opossums under her porch. Her work appears in Split Rock Review, Where the Meadows Reside, Mag 20/20, Alternative Milk Magazine, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.