the little writer | a.a. swan

my thoughts sometimes skip
like the walkman on my
carsick childhood road trip lap
suffocating in the back of a truck
little sisters pressed against both thighs
a rock hits our window like a brick
enunciating the sound of the uncertain
i’m not mumbling just masked
i promise you. take good care of yourself
advises the clerk of expensive grocery
two green haired teens are running
with clasped hands in the rain
neither boys nor girls, just humans
emotional danger lives one hundred feet from
the safe space in my acupuncturist’s office
and a skip from where i tip five
bucks for seven dollar pad thai
calling this suffering psychosomatic
is just another way to tell girls
their pain isn’t real
in a broken man’s world we
must heal each other
hands clasped in prayer, different rain
just me and the dispensary girls
giggling about sticky glass
and the sparkle of cannabis diamonds
your snack baggies shine brighter to me
i’m growing accustomed to growing up
i’m growing accustomed to growing
together again,
together again, my poems reunited in a folder
to hold these sheets
is to hold my heart in your
hands, its dark depth, appealing and alluring
ripe for consumption by a generous appetite
for all things me, for
my transmittance of myself
to ink and scraps of paper on an ikea table
on the bed my shy nipples swell
boldly into your eager mouth, a terrain
now becoming familiar, but my thoughts,
oh, my thoughts, they’re still a waterfall
of bubbly letters only
our inner family can read
there must be a hundred million words
in this house and a hundred million nerve
endings in my neck. last one, he says
swooping in for the final kiss
before leaving me to
friday afternoon nap, so soon interrupted by
telltale convulsions of the
distinct pleasure of solitude

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this: