In front of the laundromat

a cigarette grows out

of stub and ash, smoke

seeps from lungs

back into sticky-dry

tobacco, red hot cherry

backs away from filter,

reshapes as fire, jets back

into bic lighter, gas

condenses into fluid.

Came back unsmoked

to haunt our past

selves down. Almost

a room in the outskirts,

we write each other

out. Eyes like wildness,

your torso tree trunk, we

careless pass a bottle

of warm stolen vodka.

Sing songs of chipmunks,

chase each other up plum

trees, over roofs

of cars, fluff each others

tails before we scamper

through the oaken

night to bury acorns.

Came back to teach us

how to make

our bodies out of muddy leaves, shape

our faces from

a pliant clay. Crop

vineyard hair, cattail

braids, let snakes

grow as they may.

Pluck river stone

out of the water,

become ourselves

a river. Chisel cloven

feet for gravel dancing.

Came back to sing

again I think,

together. Seek

each other out

by scent, taste

clove smoke. Dig

up the acorns,

and with our fingers

dirt-caked set them

shiny in our mouths

as teeth and gilding

for our crowns.

————————————–

Allegra Wilson called us from Santa Rosa, CA.

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