that calls for harshness
there is everything poetic about living
I write about joy a promising persimmon
in a closed fist I grow my nails
an unlit cigarette sweet maple
tree burnt and brown yellow
the sun is the brightest star the earth
knows that floats like a bird
steal crumbs of bread as a sin
from a murder of crows
wrap a warm wet towel
around my deep cut thighs some things
I can do something about
my skin is the light of a lamp
I buy black clothes
to prepare for the life yet to live
and wear it for festive occasions
the sun is a bowl of soup
my friend’s mother lives
her daughter dies of cancer
the sky toned down
remember I started drinking
whiskey in high school
I used opaque paint and duct tape
nothing holds water a friend
whose funeral I didn’t go to
gave me a purple trinket box
with a mirror a year later
I think of it as my bed
smelling of disease I lose
my friend at ten
a week later I buy roses and cut
their heads to keep close stems
of thorns when I touch them they hurt
I buy more black clothes
because repetition makes habit and
habit makes perfection but no sense
unless death is at the door
my mouth is full of dirt water
two sycamores shed their skin
trees lose leaves and I wait to
be numbed with starlight
Cover Art: Transitory Space, Brooklyn, NYC, #23A, by Leah Oates
