Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Black Ice


I miss the sheetrock and plaster, the coiled twine
and cracked pink linoleum
I miss the shiny scattered petals of the smashed bottles
I miss that coffee can full of nails and pine needles
crumbling to rust at the bottom of the stairs
I miss the horseshoe crabs, the whiff of brine
slipping from under their carapaces
I miss the version of myself that never quite emerged
from its battered chrysalis
I miss the clapperless bells, the little tin horns,
the croakers and clickers, your teeth and gums
your teeth and gums, your lips
I miss the wrought iron fence that pierced your chin,
the clawfoot tub we soaped ourselves against
the bottom of
I miss the chimneys, the smokestacks, the long-dead factories
The water towers with the names of the little shit towns
lettered across their bellies
I miss the fucking snow, even the slush, even the black ice
The plastic bags, the sugar packets
The hair that would fall over your raccoon eyes
I miss gently holding that hair back
while you retched, wondering if I should wrap it
around my fist
and pull

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