Once again,
my eyes have failed
to cradle the sorrow
of her last morning’s cascade.

Once–
my back bathed
under the lazy midday sun,
lightly awakened
by her calloused touch.

Her hands were golden, as if baked under runny sun,
Yolk dripping into the palms,
Painting her in ancient warmth
As her fingers held the cigarette to her lips, allowing the aged paper to crack her mouth open
Autumn afternoon senior year ‘08

Studying my nose in the mirror
I recall roaming for comfort
My fingers are my ailment- dismay
That you will one day let go of my hand,
Not necessarily for another, (though it has been so)
But from a gradual loosening
My knot of insecurity,
A continual,

seven horses dead in 10 days, track dirt still
painting damp mouths and eyes that will
never start again and here we are with
our feet kicking up ground and orange light
staining like iodine on skin and we never
think to worry it’ll be us splayed out on the