she was the reason for tuesday morning poetry.
i have been trying to remember the details:
blue eyeliner trailed to crisp point, the breaking point
of pacific waves, flatness of her cheekbones like someone
sandpapered them down, a smooth finish.

jeans tugged to reach tops of her socks, jumping above her
ripe-cherry bones – ankles a stripe of skin smooth
against dark denim. i like to imagine calling her baby –
a word i have never used to warm the shoulders
of anyone else and she wears it like a fur stohl
nuzzling her dimpled nose into the small dead thing.
Relishing her title like a piece of ripe fruit,
baby, baby, blue wave break baby.


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