Zofia

16

i trip my way onto
the screen porch,
mercury at my feet and a
tongue on my tooth;
half woman, half calamity.

it's 1am, the
sky is bleeding,
and my forehead is
leaking sweat.
my hands
are twisting around
each-other, searching
for their mediator.

[i cant find you.]

it's 1am and i am
turning over in my
double bed; the fan's air is
washing me, the broken clock
watches me, and every
sidewalk gap i've ever
waded through plays
behind my eyelids.

i remember that summer
time glows moist, that every
white sheet is born from
yellowing, wrinkled hands.

90 degrees can be
frigid if palms and kneecaps
and mouths,
pink flush grapefruit mouths,
are empty enough.