I haven’t written a poem about a girl
in one year and three months
and that was a
hate poem,
sharpened into wordy malevolence
and spread like a confession.

(She sucks her cigarettes firmly
dimpled cheeks caving in on themselves
overtaken by crumbling carcinogens
lighting each one carefully
from the end of her father’s
ever-present smoke,
tucked firmly between his writing fingers)

I swore off the girly poetry and
switched to big city grit
subway stories and
late night escapades through a
dimly lit brooklyn.

(her sleepless habits tucked safely into
the bags beneath her lids and
her paleness by porch light is

the last girl i might have loved
still writes-
delicately scrawled
dated from weeks before the postmark,
one thing I never loved was

the last girl I might have loved
kissed me unceremoniously beside her mailbox
bare toes crackling against
the morning heat on the asphalt
but her silly wool sweater and
how her legs draw together at the knees are
what I prefer
to remember.

We are a table full of
slouched against the torn vinyl seats
we slam mugs full of
honey’d tea
angrily against the dented table and
listen to rock and roll.

smooth blossoms of playing cards
forming fans to
heave away the stiff air,
frustrated obscenities and
pristinely sober laughter
infiltrates the deck.

feet propped against the edges of
the table we
take cigarette breaks and
drown ourselves in
puddles of melting ice cream while a
hollow voice from the speakers reminds us
we should be drunk by now.


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