snapshot (nashville)
she is next to me, and she is floating
the way i want to be, but instead i am
here, slipping every sip
down my throat, unfeeling.
she is stumbling, and the world is
going too fast, but i can’t leave her,
and he’s buying me another drink,
and he’s lighting me
another cigarette, and she is giggling, almost passed
out on the bar stool, while his hand is climbing
my skirt, while he’s making eyes at me,
whispering so close, i wish i’d met you
first. i am imagining sneaking
my tongue behind his ear while she’s puking
in the bathroom, his hands snaking through my hair and other
parts, and i am swallowing
every drop of every drink he’s buying
us, since she’s collapsed in her seat, retching
with a dry mouth, and he’s slurring, just one
more, and i do, losing count while looking
at the red in his eyes, or maybe it’s a reflection
of mine, and she’s clinging to my arm, and the bar
is blurring, and he’s watching me leave, and i’m feeling
his tongue where it never touched me, and then i can’t
remember his name.
snapshot (atlanta)
there’s a blue-lit moon and scotch
on breath. a liquor lip, blackout
mouth. i’ve got three days to make
you crave, to drink till we forget
those fingers spidering thighs, eyes
on skyline. i’ve got a child
in my head, she’s in the city,
finding every excuse to stay, to call
this home. i bore a red lip, scratched
back with plastic nails. rolled
eyes heavied by sangria and sex.
i’ve been finding you in the water,
in the lights seen from the balcony—
i wrote you a love poem, ripped it
and left with the westbound wind.