Sawyer Fell

“Men are dogs,” I say to my friend as she kneels at the foot of her bed, like a child waiting for her mother’s strong arms. Yet, I am her friend tonight, so my scrawny arms make a cheap cradle.

Galore are the hung fruits.
Their ample flesh and roundness;
their cherub cheeks reddened
from the pinching of a breeze.
They are tapered to branches
dangling perfectly, prostituted
for their flavorful innards.
 

In the crisp embrace of my russet leaf patch, 
a Queen Bee reigns supreme, Her presence unmatched. 
Her saintly swarm rustles me, yet I am blessed, 
for She brings forth the chilly scent of ember rest. 

In the prior Autumn, the air smelled of leaf carcasses
and her abundant unused potential.
In efforts to cope she wrote of downpours,
breakup boots, and predicted wasted experiences.
She rebelled against her own sense of self, yet

Somewhere outside of Philadelphia,

there is a small island in a pond shaped like a boomerang.

When I tilt my chin to the heavens,

I wonder which foolish god

threw it to this barren part of earth?

He is a toy cowboy on a horse 

and is dragged off into the sunset 

while my stuffed bunny heart 

waits in the backdrop to be held. 

Our God is the small Girl who hides