"she was a laugh"
between daydreams by jake kilroy.
with the curve of her lips,
she could howl at the moon.
it was slight, it was bare,
and i could hardly breathe.
she would stretch her limbs
like a yawning mulberry tree,
the kind built for childhood,
the type that looks good with age.
my eyes were strobe light vintage,
and her skin was papyrus sweet.
we mulled over our teeth
with cameras used in the war
and canvases that adorned palaces.
god, she was breathtaking.
i wrote the poetry into her skin
and pressed down with a caress
to make sure it'd seep all the way
into the wild rivers she called blood,
so the words would sweep through her,
truly burying each time she was alone,
leaving the past to waste away for good.
when she would sleep, and she slept wild,
my words would sneak out of her delta
and somersault across her prairie muscles
to take the railway that was her every bone.
she was the scenic route,
and i was the long ride home,
but we curved into each other,
crashing and reaching and traveling,
until we were dizzy with fireworks
and pulverized with poems and anthems,
lighting candles inside each other's brain,
so we could see what we were in love with.
but all of it,
absolutely all of it,
every inch of our bodies,
every wish of our beings,
could be summed up