old girl

i imagine waking for the first time in three days
the neck of my mandolin clutched in my fist, both
of us missing our bodies, metal strings wound around
my arms, leaving termite lines in the skin of my wrists.
i would want to find bits of her around the room
saying from her throat: you do not remember, but
i was here. my earrings awash in the sea of your sheets –
they fell out or maybe you yanked them, clenched so hard
they poked holes in your palm.



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.