I miss people longer than normal. My mother looks
down at me with pursed lips, says honey do you want
to come out of bed today? I think soft things: a girl,
mouth pressed against metal teeth. A boy, a wrecked
car, highway streaked like light. A woman & a man
in a floral hotel room, pink bruises. I miss you
longer than normal. It’s hard to write a love poem that isn’t a lie.
I’m not doing so well. A robber in a ski mask shot a man
in a deli, headlines say. I know how that felt, soft thoughts:
shoving Hershey bars and Bic lighters into a yellow pillow case,
ears ringing, fingers bruised, dying noises
coming from behind the counter.
A man, a wrecked car, highway streaked like light.
Lips like broken eggs, a kiss like yolk. Fawn throats,
wet with blood, the sky littered with glass. I’m still looking
for my get away car. City lights like the mouth
of a river. Something empty.
You used to pluck flowers from my teeth.