Posted on Leave a comment


The adult, the daughter, the armpit hair grower

Is the holy ghost on my period or not

Swinging low in the orange warm swaddle

Spitting and rolling basil

Birthmark in the shape of my mother’s longing

The giant looks tired today

Perhaps we should make her a pillow or run away

The fortress created so that all who enter

are immediately lost and similarly destroyed

If she’s going to open up a bead shop

she may as well start a middle school

How much is this for eight days in January

I’d like to be your thing

because everyone knows you have one

that you never talk about

There were only two of us that night counting cards

on top of the barges in these clean flag dirty towns

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *