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Georgina Ann Jul 2011
How many times has the summer stuck to the back of your thighs
as you peel them away from your leather bucket seats,

Clung to you
with it’s skipping rocks and carpenter bees
and there’s too many dandelions on the lawn.

How many times has the citrus ******* sunshine
drifted through your rose-gold Aviators
and touched the crispy skin around the corners of your eyes,
made it crinkle when you laughed.

Count the times you padded barefoot into the Dairy-mart
just for the AC and the way the linoleum tiles
felt on your feet

And add that to the number of nights
the whole town smelled like honeysuckle.

Divide by the amount your pores the humidity clogged,

And tell me how long it took you
to kneel in the baby’s breath
and beg for more.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
I slept with one of my teachers in high school.

We used to barter with fleeting, salty kisses
behind the musty curtain of the old auditorium.

The whiskers he'd been shaving since I was seven
always chaffed my chin a little. In a good way.

We coated ourselves in sputtered dust under the stage
when we were supposed to be building the set for 'Annie'.

He would cradle my thighs in his think hands
and slowly peel the clothes away.

He put me on top
of the chorus' baby grand
and made love to me like I was grown

Because,

I was the eyelash swimming in his retina
and he couldn't look away.

Until snickering waves of adultery
swept around the room
and made the springs
of the folding chairs
squeak.

I felt the electric panic ripple through his body
before it pooled in his eyes
and dripped down his face like syrup.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
~

Abraham Lincoln used to lie.
So did my mother.
 
Remember that time when we were little? The night we wrote our names on the sidewalk with the guts of a thousand mashed-up fireflies?  I asked.  The night the birds and their babies forgot to sleep? The night we felt free because we had nothing left to burn? Do you remember the way the sunrise dribbled over the horizon and leaked into our tattered converse sneakers?
 
As soon as you said Yes
I knew you were a liar too
 Because 
I made that memory up.
 
When you run your gritty hands through my hair, is that a lie too? I bet you’re just pretending when you put my head on our chest and breathe slowly so I’ll sleep sounder.   I know the stale sweat sitting on our skin isn’t real. I guess it doesn’t matter.  Because
 
One hundred years
is just a gasp
and a
breath
 
And you make me gasp every time I let you lie with me. I pant and heave and choke as your stories wiggle their way across my tongue and stick to the inside of my throat. And by then the truth doesn’t matter. You’re either a memory or a mirage or a dream and I don’t care. All I need are those 

Goose Bumps 
you leave scattered 
across 
my 
sheets.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
When I was little, my Mumma taught me
how to make perfume from the rose petals
in my Nan's English garden.

The grass out there was always soggy
but I never wore shoes, never wore anything.
      Flowers are best picked in the ****.

She gave me a wicker basket and said,
Watch out for the thorns and the slugs.

She picked her petals slow;
only took the nice ones.

But I didn't care about wilted edges
or gnawed worm holes.
I grabbed them all in rough fist-fulls.

Mumma tossed petals above my head
and let them flit down around me,
so I could parade threw them and pretend
I was the Queen of everything.

When our baskets were full she filled a deep ceramic bowl
with hot, cloudy water from the temperamental sink.

We pushed the petals in and broke the torrid surface.

Now, She said
It's time to let them steep. 

So she gave me Hasbiro milk bottles and chocolate buttons
while I helped her hang the linens outside
on that revolving white rack,
and we waited for our Eau du flor to brew.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
Your toes are cold in just slippers
as you stand outside and watch

the ardent orange tongues,
lap up your tangibility.

They squirm through crevices in your floorboards
and kiss your clothes to ash.

They kneed and scream and crack.
You know you lost.

Before you can stop it,
The North Wind cups the fleeting embers in his palm
and tosses them into the molasses sky.

He whips them around tall buildings
and lets them settle on street signs.

He nestles ash in old, abandoned, pizza boxes
and in the fur behind the ear of a stranger's cat.

And you still standing there, shivering.
with bleach in your diet coke
and rocks in your pockets.
and I'm scared.

I wish I were there,
to wash that shirt
you've had on for days,

To braid your hair
and fix your make-up.
To make sure your still real.

To make sure you don't burst into dust,
and join the fragments of your
favorite Bob Marley poster
between the cracks of worn-out cobble stones.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
Young
hurt,
Sear.

paced.
pangaea.
paisley.

swollen.

Run
Away.
Georgina Ann Jul 2011
I am from a big red door
that could have been bigger.

I am from the dust bunny colony
under my bed.

I am from chipped nail polish
and hastily crimped hair.

From the nine O'clock curfew,
From the first-born throne.
The tripping, wandering, hands-out-in-the-dark, throne.

I am from the tall grass.
The kind that has no paths waded through it yet.

I am from the lost, the loud, the longing.
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