Soul crawls up out of her belly and brushes against her lips as it kisses the air around her – they call it singing. “Is your mother part magnet?”
Wednesday. Hurricane season lasts into November
Thursday. Like most people I am a candle with a wick
Friday. Holding hands right is like putting pop rocks and soda in your mouth at the same time
Saturday. The image of her piano-keying someone else’s fingers might have inspired the crumbled folds of the human brain
Sunday. Time is a helix so you can see how close you really are to the way things used to be
Monday. Hips slung sideways laid out flat jigsaw puzzle pieces
Tuesday. Pray for next week. Say a prayer for her legs in tights; write it down on the back of a playbill that kissed your eyes and chased away the brown bears gnawing at your innards
When she giggles it feels like watching a lightning storm in July. On a balcony. In Virginia. Her penny-eyed smile is the color of my freckles. Meanwhile, my mouth is learning how to hold her name and my ribcage turns into a subway turnstile (W 4th street).
She says You made me so nervous. She says Last year. She asks Could you tell?
I am thinking of not too hot not too cold just right.
I get a text message says I told my mom I have a crush on a girl named you. She’s makin me grin big and quiet in the back seat of my parents’ car. Dad drives Mom sits shotgun and I smile with my head against the window lookin at her face with my eyes closed:
Soft baby hairs curl over her forehead. Her breath runs hot against my ear and I hear her music seeping into me and winter tries to get in but is stuck at the window ledge.
We drive over the long, lean bridge that snakes across the Hudson River. There are empty cranes standing against the blue sky, unmoving, licking their lips as they taste cloud.
By Marissa Castrigno, Contributor