NELLE 6 | 2023
Turn here: where I herd the crater
lasered in your departure. I have sketches
of the Georgia which endured our bodies
in the clean of the jacuzzi, in the bramble
of your trousers. Call them evidence hell is
anchored in the parallel. Kris Kross had it
right: nothing exists outside the dendritic,
collapse into each other like a tear-braised
tongue into Glenlivet, this is life: spank it
or leave, ass cheeks dented. Hip switch
past the night we painted the baby’s room
Cinderella blue, past the six shades of lace
you bought to hammock my boobs – dally
at the Citgo where we met, flirting through
the goth attendant Beth, leaving notes with
her at the register, my strawberried scent
cutting through the station like a banister,
offering its thick to your grip in answer.
Now all hours are photo booths in which
I wish every pic was a league of gasoline or
at least whatever ocean used to blush beneath
the concrete of a world where you wanted me.