the day after is seeing the world
from behind closed jaws,
vision limited to the slivers of lamplight
viewed as dental failures.
wanting to touch the wrist of every boy
who passes within arm’s reach –
unbuckle their wrong wound watches and
take crayon to vein, a waxy masterpiece.
the day after is scrolling through screens
of adoptable dogs searching for hair not fur,
need not want. listening to the girl
at the coffeehouse talk about ways she finds god
and later, the way a boy in her dorm found
his way into her bed.
the day after is listening when i should not be.
she is talking now about her father, the sin of
drunkenness he hides beneath his belt, in the bottom
of his morning coffee, under her mother’s skin.