SUMMER STRUGGLES TO
PULL IN ITS LAST DYING
BREATH WHILE THE TREES
SHED THEIR GREEN BIKINI
LEAVES. GOODBYE *****
PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS;
YOU AND YOUR SUNSCREEN
SCENTED EAR INFECTIONS
WILL NOT BE MISSED. WE
HAVE HARVEST MOONS AND
PUMPKIN-SPICED-EVERYTHING
TO FILL THE HOLLOW CEMENT
GRAVES YOU LEAVE BEHIND.

their fair skin
and pale eyes
and dark hair
fate them to
the frequent
assumption of
close blood
relation.

but surely one
must wonder
why a sister looks
to her brother like
he is the harvest
moon: beautiful
and haunting and
much too far away.

their matching
eyes meet with
the impact of
car collisions.
his bruised
knuckles graze
the back of her
hand as they
walk through
southside.

she is much too
young to kiss
the seam of his
inner thigh, but
she does.

THIS IS THE LAST
POEM I WILL WRITE
FOR YOU, OR ANYONE
WHO FEELS ENTITLED
TO AN APOLOGY FROM
ME FOR GETTING BLOOD
ON THEIR SHOES.

KEEP IN MIND, SELFISH
CHILD, THAT I HAVE WIPED
BLOOD FROM YOUR LIPS WITH
DELICATE HANDKERCHIEFS:
I NEVER BLAMED YOUR SKIN
FOR BEING TOO QUICK TO BREAK.

I AM NOT THE PATRON SAINT
OF PATIENCE. MY FEET ARE
LIGHT WITH LEAVING. I DO
NOT WAIT OUT STORMS,
I OUTRUN THEM.