I liked your pressed shirts
best
kept on you.

End of day;
wrinkled, faint bleach smell,
sleeves rolled up past your elbow,
            I count four moles on your forearm
musk standing straight and
consumptive;
eating away at the fresh cotton scent
you sprayed in the air and
walked through  just before I
laid on my side,
let you come in from behind.
I was always craving the earlier temper
that had you so wet with sweat and mindful
reproach and you reek of outburst.
But I couldn’t face it.

You would re-enact shit:
yell at the floor and I would become it
to prove my loyalty
to soft barrage.
I assured you of my masochism
and we kept our plays
our little secret.
I would follow your bellow
to North Philadelphia.

I live in North Philadelphia.
I live in a daydream.
I live under a memory of a canopy of a
full fertile moon
that I painted my toenails under the night he said,
“I want to see you more.”
And my toes twinkled, zephyr of a portentous
July night,
and I agreed that would be a good thing
to do.


You say it freely now without meaning
but the word holds a bit of a sharp
weight to it;
like a knife when it’s oil-stoned, serrated
and facing you and you aren’t sure
how this is gonna play yet but you’re
trusting and palms out,
                      I count three cuts across your fists
like expectations you had on
yourself or someone else when you should have just
taken out the trash
and not complained,
like a sudden accident when you needed
one more thing from the store that day
but there you are,
wounded and without the slivered almonds
on a bed of fresh greens.
It was pretentious and
you are concussing quietly.

I looked in my bag today and saw a bottle of blue polish
peeking out
and the train screeched to a halt
doors are opening
and I saw people tumble through the
exit signs.
I saw men that wanted to shred my spaghetti straps
with their pocket knives and abscond with the fabric
to prove their might to
absent wives.
I smiled to show them my canines,
remind them women are animals;
foxes, defensive and
all of the time.
I found a book of my old poems that someone
printed for me and
a nail file.
(Be creative, child.)
Are these signs
or are these shadows
that are chasing me?
doors are closing

I think this
unfolds,
a little bloody and
reversing.

“love”

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