Brooklyn Glitter Girl
Broken glitter girl
held my heart in her hands. That’s why I kept crying and staying up
all night gluing back together
aortas and arteries and arterial glands
after they were murdered
alongside children in elementary schools
in Pakistan, in Connecticut, in Palestine,
someone’s mother falling from windows
or trapped in flipped-over-trains
I can stand in front of Capricorn
holding my heart with my broken face
and say my heart was murdered with them
and she can run her hands
along my contours
and say How soft,
The Fourth Time I was Told “No”
“I just need to know,”
April says, grabs my face
and kisses me and desire
dissipates like a dandelion’s petiole in the breeze.
We’re walking home from a nightclub in Australia.
Brighter, more cloud filled
she’s wearing a red dress, she says,
“I’m not a demi god,” and desire
is a tsunami
and it wipes out an entire fucking town.
We’re on a boat in Sydney and April
tickles my head and I
feel it in my toes. We’re smoking
on the porch and I say, “Maybe
we should just be friends.”
“It’s too late for that,
Sara,” April says,
“Your face smells like my vagina.”
I’ll Meet You At The Lie
I’ll meet you at the lie,
she said, at the corner
where your real self
and social requirements
I can’t come with you in your dreams, she said,
but I do dream about you.
But can that really be me
flashing down a neuropathway
in your cerebellum?
Where is grace? Where are you, grace?
How can I be real with a beer in one hand
and a cell phone in the other?
Wearing a pair of wedges, for godssake grace
come inside. Am I in the right time zone?
Sunlight? Did you see me
Does it help that the people you love
look just like the people on the subway
if you only watch their hands?
Leave a Reply