Youth:
We spent hours on our skateboards
Hot days and cold nights
Skinned knees bleed slightly; they drip lightly on the same asphalt
that we glide over all afternoon
Rubber wheels smack cracks in the sidewalk
Wood scrapes concrete as you launch into the
air
if only for a moment
Everyone comes down
Rosy from the sunshine
T-Shirt stuck slightly to my sweating back
I wheeled myself under the installed cedars,
over littered leaves,
around suburban corners
A man in an orange vest held up his arms, beckoning mothers in their
vans to stop for me while I skated by but
I didn’t thank him
I felt regret
In your room we fumbled awkwardly in the half-light
Sunshine warmed us in slats through your dusty blinds
Partially filled cups sat atop your dresser, full of water and red pop
There was a buffalo springfield poster on your wall and I thought you
were devastatingly cool
We’re sixteen and we’re not in love but we love what we’re doing
I still remember your skin, it was olive dark and bruised all over,
when I ran my fingers down your back white lines remained for a
fleeting moment
Short shorts and a long shirt, these memories are vivid
I wonder where you are now – an actress I hear, which is funny
because I never really thought you were any good
I wonder if you still find the minutes to take your old skateboard,
covered in dust and the film of time, out of whatever buried corner it
inhabits
Back in your bedroom, my hand lingers next to yours as we sit close on your bed
While you contemplate my lips, I contemplate yours
I’m a little late for dinner
undersheets:
the air is silent tonight
her revolving thighs, pressed. i
sprial like a catnap
between the orange and
blue glow of fire light.
here, undressed,
amber inside
wild without regrets.
a twinkling.
as i breathe in the moist tendrils
softly on my lips
does this flavor of tragedy
bleed from my womb onto thin
carpet
(S)pit:
here fore us
(encore
us)
*
.
.
i don’t know
whatapoem
-
is or is
-
not, a parent
or any word it
could be related
-
-
absolutely
-
-
-
to a pomegranate
it could be french
-
for apple or dressing
for hair, for an aunt
-
-
I don’t know
whatisin
it, a seed
-
-
maybe it’s me
maybe it’s
you
*
‘58:
I want her to lay next to me,
sunkissed,
tickling my chin with Eliot,
Roethke, and Ginsberg flowing
like sweet auburn hair.
Reciting truths as if
I were not there.
