the edge of downtown near the student housing
by Hannah Carl
for the heartbreaker
a blue ribbon throws all of her down the drain
and the drain is so drained, something
makes its home and they throw the rest out
every inch of hair
for every inch between us
and I cut so close they use the razor.
in the swing set, ash
and a familiar finger from an airplane
over the Grand Canyon.
the arch in my foot is testimony to
a pedal, a waltz, all the very charming siren calls like lava rocks.
see how high?
so high we forget.
so high she jumps fences like a secret she couldn’t keep.
so high I couldn’t keep her fingers unwrapped around (tibia, tin can).
a magnet would never know a tighter grip.
we, easier than daisies.
we, easier than dazed.
we, years made of days.
and the spot of blood washes off when the spot is forgotten:
black garbage bag and the record player in the suitcase on the tar roof overlooking the
cigarette butts in the yard in view of the fire escape and that is where I am trapped.
the little pills for sleeping have their own marimba.
my old lover and my new lover, on the
shag rug, monopoly played with roaches of joints.
I sleep with the roaches on the futon. wooden
slats have no feelings though I try.
the house we called by its street name and the girlhoods we called by various shades of
American Spirit cigarette boxes. If a single one of us, her or me, today or in those years,
could name home it would be mash up. mix tape. bite of mixed breed dog.
we, made to forget we were once daughters.