Paintings With Bullet HolesWe held mustache contests on the beachPaintings With Bullet Holes
When we were twelve, Sprawled out on the beach like dismembered
Cockroaches, one squirming leg in the water, The other digging a hole.
We bought pink razors Made of steel, for women’s legs When we were fourteen, Paid with quarters and one dollar bills found under our beds, Cut up our faces so much that they looked like paintings With bullet holes.
We shoplifted dirty magazines from the back of the drug store And hid them between our legs When we were sixteen, Got caught and driven home in the leather seats
Chemical ReactionWhen we mixed, our bodies were counting mass In clear glass cylinders, our atoms Falling in seizures upon the other, and I poured Myself into you, I traced My hand in your insides, feeling the curve Of your intestines, and the glow of your liver.Chemical Reaction
When we mixed, our skin flamed Up in bubbling boils, and we turned the colors of fruits Me a screeching red that released its pigment In my cheeks first, my face an Apple, and yours settling
On a bright yellow, the color of the banana sitting on your desk.
When we mixed, we turned boiling hot As a tea kettle, stea
The First ThanksgivingI rubbed my hands up and down my arms, which felt as cold as poles of ice. I had been sitting on the gate for over an hour in my jeans and sweater, but I had forgotten my gloves at the house and now my fingers felt near frostbite. The day before Thanksgiving in Connecticut is always a cold one. Apple called me last night, her voice barely audible because of the booming music in the background, and told me to come to the city the next day. My mother and step dad left for the Bahamas three days ago to take their anniversary vacation and left me with alone for Thanksgiving, as they usually do this time of year. I stayed up all nightThe First Thanksgiving
see you!
bisou!
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