suck on this
Saxophones are amber glazed city lights finally giving into the first muffled sob,
sheets crammed in fist crammed in pink wet mouth,
Crying pink/wet
about some sick boy who smells of cigarettes
the swallow tattoo tastes of salt and brine,
Shoulder blade/teeth/sharp/minor/key change
This is the proof we needed to know that the woman who loves too hard
/much/often.
[The single task of waiting has now become an act of violent disrespect towards oneself.]
She is not a little girl who was simply unwrapped into grown up clothes.
She is brass and fingerprints and all things haunting
and I am her -- the wailing alto,
asking the streets if they have your forwarding address.
This song was intended for you,
In case you didn’t know.
& even the damp reed can splinter.