I was always getting into the wrong car.
Ox blood shoes tapped against cement
You weren’t afraid of color at night
The hair of the dog that bit me lays beside me:
a ford truck torso
Your crumpled carnations atop a tombstone face
your lawnmower voice
computer chip heart
me: a squished baby bird pie
tourniquet wrapped around your bicep
coaxing the blood to lie low.
My forehead exploded into starts and stops
then never did anything for too long again.
I lay like pond scum: pond scum would be prettier.
Wave after wave of pushing bangs aside
the view never cleared
Stuffed bikini bottoms into a plastic bag.
You called me an episode.
But I am melted candles.
I am doorbell ditch and the doorbell is a gong.
I am a cup of flicked eyelashes waiting to wish.
Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in the DC area. Recent chapbooks are out from Dancing Girl Press and Shirt Pocket Press. Her first full length collection is forthcoming from Lucky Bastard Press. Recent work can be seen at Jet Fuel Review, Pith, So to Speak, Entropy, Right Hand Pointing, and decomP. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/.
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