how do we cope with seven years of bad luck,
sweating summer away, treating youth
like bittersweet apricot, unripe/or rotting,
when winter brings
our future’s eroded footprints
dear God, this is a hymn; I sing it with my throat still fresh. dear God, this is a prayer; I recite it
with my head bowed and the arrow nocked. irony coalesces in the strangest
i. dremel uvula
we are girls. to hope is to expect. to revert back
to sticky hands, to beg between tantrum sobs
for lullabies. we are girls, we polish
our sentiments (with sandpaper tongues)
we feel we are broken: ‘you, kissing temples.
i, stuck in church.’
but broken implies a previous wholeness,
so we settle for fragmented, so we are all a little bit each other.
Dripping with gasoline,
we chase unlit matches
a revolution to lead.
Bored of bliss, we band-aid
papercuts caused by the Constitution.
We pick sides &