“Her Climate” began as a quiet obsession with how a woman carries her own weather—how a room changes when her attention shifts, when her hunger rises or recedes. I wanted the poem to feel like moving through a living landscape of touch and restraint, where the body answers in tides instead of explanations.
Her Climate
Lay down
and spread wide.
Open up
and taste the seeds.
The climate has an appetite—
not too deep,
for going too far
can cause discomfort.
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I wrote this as a quiet map to a woman’s weather—how her body shifts with attention, how tenderness can turn a season. If you listen closely, you might hear the storm and the stillness asking the same question: will you stay long enough to learn her sky?
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Author’s Note Her climate is an intimacy of appetite, where touch and hunger move in tandem. The body and the earth share a careful grammar of opening and holding back, asking how much of themselves they can offer without disappearing.
— Author’s Note: Writing her weather means holding both the forecast and the fever, letting the word “climate” mean skin and season at once. Desire wants to flood the page, but the poem keeps a shoreline, a quiet edge where appetite must learn to pause. In that restraint, I’m asking how far language can go toward the body without pretending it can own her tide.
