Less and Less

Last summer I spilled coffee on my favorite pair of jeans
so I cut a hole the shape of a star
and now only wear them to bed.

Often I wake in the morning to the sound
of a foghorn.
I am neither near an ocean or dreaming.

Later I crave red currents and a sunset. 
I have neither. I eat a popsicle
in the bathtub and hope it helps. 

Sometimes I think I see her hands
on my windowpane before I close the shade.
I suffocate more than usual with cotton
stuffed up my mouth.
I breathe like I'm running just to witness
my own sweat.

My little sister buries a plum in the garden
and tells me to wait.
"Just you see," she says, "next year we'll be eating purple orbs."
I throw my head back and gaze at the sky.
"Maybe" I whisper at her receding back.
She is so unlike a plum.
I wonder why she wants them. 

 

Love to write

VT

YWP Alumni Advisor

More by Love to write

  • Unbecoming

    The streets have teeth and we hold our fingers with enough space for the others and drink cider on a corner where the ceiling above us blinks blue-blue-blue onto her tonsil-pink dress and someday I hope I never have to see it in a suitca

  • Self-Portrait at 18

    I know it’s a bad title 
    but I’m carving these words 
    out of my compacted mind. 
    I’m trying to mix the mud of my thoughts 
    into something more coherent 
    than to do lists and quiet 
  • Authorized Entrance Only

    There is no twilight in the city. 
    Only time we collect in our mouths, 
    sun peeling color off the streets,
    rats skittering down sidewalks.

    The fire escape has been painted gold.
    It shimmers at night,