DEAR, DEAR #45
I sat in empty
parking lots
with boys in
torn collars.
A boy with
burning red hair
gave me sips
of cold schnapps.
I was fourteen
crowded with
the sparking
abundance of
un-dug treasure.
I pretended
to inhale.
I pretended living.
The sound of
suspended smoke
on my tongue
gave away how
alive I didn’t
know how to be.
YAWN OF THE CEILING FAN
At dawn the light
is homeless,
creeps under the
curtain, looking
for small children
and old men
to settle on.
Before I found
the ways that
I could break
I spent whole days
doing nothing
but beating my
own heart.
I yawned
without
covering
my mouth.
I laid in my bed
loving the
length of
flesh that
I belonged to.
I said to the
ceiling fan
I am here
to break
the sadness.
And the
Sadness said
but you need me.
And the
ceiling fan said
good luck.
