There was some relief the day I thought I was
going back home
for good.

I remembered your bedroom,
your hair in a muss
and your musk leading us.
No one has ever kissed me like a
mirror before
and so I said yes, I will move
to a flooding creek,
I am willing to be swallowed.
You used the word
love
freely
as if it had no heavy promise
attached.

I live in North Philadelphia.
In a daydream.
I live under a canopy of a full fertile moon that I painted my
toes under
the night he said,
“I want to see you more.”
So he sees me here every day
in his little boy fantasy come true
where the word love 
holds a certain sharp weight to it.
Like a knife.
Like an expectation.
Like a promise I never made.

Not that I thought I would ever get to re-meet you
start the whole thing over,
but maybe we could.
We both believe in covert vengeance.
And I look in my bag and see a bottle of blue polish peeking out
and the train screams that “doors are opening”
but all I see are exit signs.
Mixed messages.
Thanks, God for the bullet-less gun
and I don’t get it.
I find a book of old poems that someone printed for me and
a nail file.
Be creative, child.
Every single boy on this train looks like
my missing brother.

Are these signs
or are these shadows
that are chasing me?

“Doors are closing.”

And sometime past twelve,
the moon,
describing her life’s purpose said:
“I would rather be alone forever
THAN LIE.
What about you, girl?”

 

“necromancy”

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