We drink foul fluid from plastic water bottles to forget about our mothers all tucked alone into their beds like forgotten puppet shows. We want to forget about the boys with faces all black & vulnerable like barbecued hooves of deer & about our stomachs swollen as skinned water. Summers like this in towns like this during nights like this would be better if we could drive. We sit together with knees bare & bruised in short grass. We’re drawn to one another like widows to cemeteries. We’re convinced that we would look good in white wedding dresses. We grow our hair out that summer, our hair long as piles of dead snakes. The boys pretend to laugh at us. They have ribs like cores of apples, ribs that would look better discarded into the earth. The boys remind us of our fathers, the ones busy building lakes as though they were clocks. Our fathers are the same as us in that they are constantly filling themselves up with water so as not to get hurt. & at night they are not with our mothers.
((i s2g all of my poetry is the same @ this point///everything about saints & bodies & wolves & deer & boys & mothers yafeel???//the ~~~aesthetic~~~ i g u e s s))