Annaka Saari is a writer from Michigan. She earned her MFA from Boston University, where she now works as the administrator for the Creative Writing Program. She also serves as managing editor for Solstice: A Magazine of Diverse Voices and a poetry reader for The Los Angeles Review. The recipient of a Florence Engel Randall Graduate Fiction Prize and a Scotti Merrill Poetry Award, her work has been named a finalist for the Prufer Poetry Prize, longlisted for the DISQUIET Literary Prize, and appeared in or is forthcoming in The Southern Review, Pleiades, Image, Cleveland Review of Books, The Maine Review, Plume, and other publications.
was the year she bought the aloe
plant, the year she broke its leaves
in her hands and smoothed salps
of gel into the pink of my skin.
The callouses on her fingers —
roughness of keeping horses —
sent sprigs of light under
the damp weight of my bikini,
imagined finger trails snaking
across my goosebumped breasts.
Inside her mother’s house, she’d
slip out of her suit and into dry
clothes, the time-spent lace
of her bra twisting with wet
hair to make a mess of her back.
I’d smooth the knots, separate
the strands and straps, use my
hands until the tension ran slack.