College Park, Maryland (draft)
Maryland, I will give you my front door. It is cracked, the paint is faded. The weather has taken its toll, but you can have it. Brass handle and all.
In the heat, the dock stretches out like yard lines on a football field and this morning we were born American, national monuments rising up out of our sunburned shoulder blades. You have teeth like all the pretty girls, perfect rows. The salt from the estuary draws topographical maps on our skin while three hawks fly overhead, so close I can hear the space between their wingtips. They run lazy circles, looking for victims or a branch, just something to hold onto.
These shadows of ours grow halos till we are all made of oil, we are an ancient painting, we are holy. I caught a fish in one swallow, ate it whole and watched it swim straight through me. We are thick and textured with this salt and this sun. On the horizon, the storm clouds hang themselves heavy on invisible stars.
*
Down the street from your perfect square house we lay out on the back porch belly to board and discuss fireflies. Tiny lighthouses, who are you bringing in home? I let mine fly off. Be a beacon for another wartime ghost, this coast is full of them, so go find a lonely soldier their way home. I don’t want your magic body-blood for my glow.
*
That night we sleep in one bed like sisters, like twin matchsticks and we tell adult stories. We are still children though. Poop is still funny. Poop is always funny. We sleep in your bed like sisters, the window open so the thunderstorm has unhinged and fallen on our ankles. Summer storms and streetlights teaching pale ankles to glow. We tell secrets to keep us calm, stretched out hearts, naked like appendages all tangled in sheets and stories. We sleep in one bed like sisters. Whispered secrets. Pale glowing ankles. The loudest birds wake us up at four in the morning. We leave the windows open.
Our skin, it glows like angels.
In the heat, the dock stretches out like yard lines on a football field and this morning we were born American, national monuments rising up out of our sunburned shoulder blades. You have teeth like all the pretty girls, perfect rows. The salt from the estuary draws topographical maps on our skin while three hawks fly overhead, so close I can hear the space between their wingtips. They run lazy circles, looking for victims or a branch, just something to hold onto.
These shadows of ours grow halos till we are all made of oil, we are an ancient painting, we are holy. I caught a fish in one swallow, ate it whole and watched it swim straight through me. We are thick and textured with this salt and this sun. On the horizon, the storm clouds hang themselves heavy on invisible stars.
*
Down the street from your perfect square house we lay out on the back porch belly to board and discuss fireflies. Tiny lighthouses, who are you bringing in home? I let mine fly off. Be a beacon for another wartime ghost, this coast is full of them, so go find a lonely soldier their way home. I don’t want your magic body-blood for my glow.
*
That night we sleep in one bed like sisters, like twin matchsticks and we tell adult stories. We are still children though. Poop is still funny. Poop is always funny. We sleep in your bed like sisters, the window open so the thunderstorm has unhinged and fallen on our ankles. Summer storms and streetlights teaching pale ankles to glow. We tell secrets to keep us calm, stretched out hearts, naked like appendages all tangled in sheets and stories. We sleep in one bed like sisters. Whispered secrets. Pale glowing ankles. The loudest birds wake us up at four in the morning. We leave the windows open.
Our skin, it glows like angels.
love this.
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