just visiting
at 5 and 8. 15 and 26.
I came home to her after
loud, blurry years, and
she dragged me bloody
through the achy quiet
after.
Straight teeth smiled past us
as we rubbed circles into
our palms.
A jogger in all white, like an angel,
spoke to us, like an angel,
and said “on your left.”
To our left was
a picnic blanket
crawling with locusts,
so we took our seats among them
and drank heavy.
Infant gods in our small
kingdom, we played games in
strange languages.
Rotten at chess, but a dollhouse
is simple. The pieces can move
in any direction.
Her eyes are sore from reading
eighteen identical copies of
The Hand of Oberon.
I push my thumbs hard into
the flesh of Damsons
and sell the bruised fruit
as pomace.
In the divots between
warm bodies, we walked to
black sand beaches,
the road glittering hot under
bare feet.
The burns and scrapes
keep us awake
long after.