By M. Plucky
Beautiful boney cheeks
freckles that peek unabashedly
young, curled around my thumb.
Angel hair, fairer than what's fair
and never there. Never there.
Fires start around your bed, I take a match
and lay them there to feed the too much need
that ignites the freckles that I touch too much.
I take them out and scatter them on the floor
to start small fires instead of starting a war.
A trail of drunken longing lines the tops
of chairs from her bedroom to her stairs.
I dragged my fingers there to stain them with
the drawing of her name that told my feet
which way to go: not home. Never home.
I will pull a book down off a shelf a shelf and graze its spine
until it's softer than mine and peels back the sheets that hold
all those words I need. I'll squeeze
the edges
til they curl. A world of ideas
spilled open
just for me.
And then I'll read the words, gulp them down,
their ripe and tender juices coating me with shameless hope
and healthy greed.
I will bleed along the pages, leave
a trail for you to read
until you find me.
Death beyond the stacks.
Death will leave its tracks
