A poem for when I see you in the passenger side window and don’t stop. A poem for summer, lush and salt, and I break dishes in bathroom stalls to stop my hands from shaking.
My car has no brakes and in dreams, I crack the ribs of deer over and over. Walking on eggs dyed blue and green like Vietnam dusk. A palm open to the sky. A dirty towel on my chest, eyes ravens and wood wide.
Hunger deep like September grass and my thighs and my fists. When I blink, I find trailer park dreams: a face that’s no longer my own, a love that has grown beyond me. Butter knives. Wet petals beneath my tongue.
Too far gone out to sea to ever come back. Knotting my thousand tongue words in a way that drowns summer, gives my hands purpose, gives me something to think about other than television static and paint stains. Voice like a sutured wound, and still, I go to playgrounds and give sigh-eyed boys finch kisses by the swing set.
A bathroom stall, white mouthed girls heaving.
A bathroom stall, and you aren’t touching me anymore.