For Carly Rae
There are teeth
where my heart should be
and they are always hungry.
At night, in our darkened bedroom,
we hear them gnash against themselves,
cry out for more than this. We are stuck in
our bodies, and when I breathe in,
my lungs are full of asbestos, all itch and
paper cuts. We try to drown my heartteeth
out with a bass line, a trumpet that cuts
across air, but we mold in corners,
sick of the party. We move
to the front stoop, still our legs, drum
fingers in call to nature, to one another. Darling,
we are small town dreams, and we are big city sweets.
There is a howl that starts in my stomach, and I feel
my body go feral in the Southern summer humidity, the kind
that drowns civility in favor of bare feet running, and
darling, yes, let’s run. We’ll cross state lines on nothing
but adrenaline and Fireball, kiss me cinnamon burn.
When it grows dark out, we’ll follow moonpaths
across rivers, let our feet slip through mud, and finally
breathe rainwater clean.
Leave a Reply