a blue bird twines
of wire
where sunflowers grow
your air is twisted
like she
unthawed
in your
affection
an aroma far
from lonely
i find dizziness
underneath
liquor
we are empty
never simultaneously
the glass is warped
i’ve stood here forever
waiting
for the
freeze to pass
Helios in
a winter solstice
unconquered
I am fire and light
come to me
and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high
and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
the shot,
the bounce,
your heavy gunman.
The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.
I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to reach,
to grab,
to attach myself to the moon.
I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,
not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
a reminder.
A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.
We do not have friendship,
or handshake,
or hug,
or your banal Tupperware parties.
You do not pout your lips in
sympathy when thoughts
of
my china doll bite your cheeks.
We do not plan swing-slide
adventures
for little skinny
blonde boys
and girls.
I do not smile and nod
as silly intoxication drags
misery out of your voice anymore.
But, you are my friend, soberly watching
for Raccoon feces, while your
husband throws the TV at you.
Once, I watched with clean eyes, while his dirty
ones stabbed you
with a sharp
pint.
Your voice never drags that up when
you are sober,
you only speak about the Raccoon’s.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 