here's the barbecue smoke,
the charcoal embers glowing
rusty red, except for the mint green,
that belongs to her dress
flaring in the air as she spins,
barefoot, breathing like clouds,
her smile's dirty in the most
familiar and comforting of ways,
her hair a bouquet of barbecue
smoke. and someone points,
someone shouts that the girl
should not be dancing,
and here again we have her hands
caked in earth, buried in the ground.
she's not beautiful, no,
she's a smeared mess of chemical
reactions and sky,
she's gotten herself dirty all over
again, painted in petals,
puffing out breaths like her stomach
is the hearth of a chimney,
someone's shouting, pointing,
and here we are back at our
third floor window, watching as she
spins in a mint green haze
of flaring fabric and barbecued
laughter. it's winter, the sun
is sweating like summer but the spring
flowers are buried beneath
fallen autumn leaves. she keeps
skipping over those red hot embers
and we're watching her get
comfortable in this
dirty, dirty skin like it's the most
common chemical reaction
we've ever seen.
• Author's Note •
Which poem is your favorite so far? Also, thank you so much for the #6 ranking! I'm still in shock.
YOU ARE READING
seams and stitching ♡ published
Poetry"this is your kind of story. no one is the good guy-- no one is the bad guy-- the blame shifts from monster to monster and in this place everyone bares their teeth." [featured. highest ranking: #6 in poetry.]
