juice box

if we were friends at age seven
we'd sit on a stoop
our fingers laced
i'd be pigeon toed
your heels would touch
we'd name stars
and make faces
with the clouds

i'd say: can the stars hear us?
you'd say: if we scream loud enough?!

in our bubble
we'd hear
our echoes
and giggle

you'd say: can the clouds see us?
i'd say: only if we close our eyes

we'd turn blindly to the sky
then to one another
shrink
our chins
and through
our reddened
faces
we'd be friends

rubberband

real pearls
flat against my chest
red lips
pursed against
your absent
mouth

and painted
nails
holding
a rubberband
you buried
in-between
my index fingers

slowly i pull
it into the
edges of
space

snap!
my fingers
lose you

why did you
close the casket
when i was still
breathing?

why did i wear
my best party
dress to a
life gone deadly wrong?

pickled apples (for f.)

there's death in your left eye
that not even its companion
can make right

it hangs low
it drags into the past
it's scratched
sometimes yellow
often red
more than brown

your brow dips
often dives
and it closes
leaving everything wrong
in the open

a stye makes
your elongated eyelashes
curl and clump
lathered with
the weight of brilliance
a fear of the body
a helpless want for intimacy
that only that dying eye
can scream

but even in infection
in all that is ugly
there is failed beauty
there is that eye
struggling
it lifts, extends
speaks
a word
and becomes again

trying at your name again

yellow: this is where you had me

three year rejection
coming round again
i turn left
at right you ascend
in a smart car
traveling faster
than my mouth
gasping red into
green

i am something forgiving
and you: forgetful, ethereal.
you regain entity
and i lose domain as

i stand on grand's corner
grocery bag quickly making face with the rain
knees: shaking branches on a london-like night
i light a cigarette
breathe out
flashes of your black, wrist watch
montage into your pet name

this object gives you
meaning
like yellow gave me place