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Nov |
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a poem by Michelle Tooker
Ana
Do you remember?
The screech of tires
on hot July pavement?
The glass that rained,
tickled like spider web?
We were close then,
ate lunch in cafes with
$4 lattes and $9 wraps.
That day, you said you loved
him and I didn't say I knew
his secret studio where black
paint flew at small bodies.
Art can be anything, you always said.
'Beautiful' is an opinion,
talent is the gift.
The blood on us at that moment
where Broad kisses Market,
in front of the deli
we always meant to try
We never made it back,
and I still hear that screeching--
in sleep--like starved babies
begging for milk
as paint fills their mouths.
The screech of tires
on hot July pavement?
The glass that rained,
tickled like spider web?
ate lunch in cafes with
$4 lattes and $9 wraps.
him and I didn't say I knew
his secret studio where black
paint flew at small bodies.
Art can be anything, you always said.
'Beautiful' is an opinion,
talent is the gift.
where Broad kisses Market,
in front of the deli
we always meant to try
and I still hear that screeching--
in sleep--like starved babies
begging for milk
as paint fills their mouths.