These girls, I think. These girls could kill me, straight up.
Nail shine like a penny you save from the gutter’s maw.
Lips like candied apples, sticky with sugarsweetsyrup.
These girls could put me in my place. If I had a place.
If they knew about the concrete statue I made to myself,
the way I close my eyes when I braid my hair.
Small gestures, like doodles in a notebook. Get too close
and you can’t read them. Too far and all you see is the way
the ink crosses the lines. These girls. What would they say
if they could see me in the dark, legs tangled in the sheets,
limbs tangled in the heat of his hands? Would they venture
into the space of my brain, girl-knives at the ready?
In the girls’ bathroom, this equation makes no sense,
quadratic formulas marked by Xs and Os.
Someone is weeping in the stall. I want to
choke her for sounding the alarm.
Back of the Envelope
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written in the same booth in the back. Again.
Ears On The sound of the espresso wand.
Time Taken Five minutes.
Brain On the novel. Brazil. So much to do.