A girl with flowing, brown locks
opens the novella of her world to you,
as you both lay on her bed, facing each other,
her elbows and your elbows touching,
her hands tucked beneath her cheek,
your hands tucked beneath your cheek,
as though she and you are about to
lick each other’s souls,
nibble each other’s hearts,
and fornicate each other’s minds.
Your eyes are targets.
Her eyes are targets.
This is the South and you both open carry.
She inserts the mag. You insert the mag.
She ***** the piece. You **** the piece.
She aims. You aim.
You look at her targets
You then see her face.
Green-eyed Hepburn
You close your eyes.
She’s your confidante,
your neighbor, your best friend.
You open your eyes.
Your hand shakes, your fingers sweat.
She itches the trigger.
You put the gun down.

She got my number from her sister Elizabeth.
She spoke in a voice, bearing resemblance to the silkworms the Europeans stole.
She used to date a guy from Hixson who drove a 1956 Chevy Bel Air.

I drove a Toyota.
I didn’t smoke cigarettes, or drink alcohol.
I went to NOVA, the community college.

She texted me: Good Morning; She texted me: I’m thinking about you.
She told me, over the phone, about her car accident, before her family.
She found a new boyfriend: Mark. A mellow skater.

I took my first creative writing class with a Professor as my poet.
I wrote poems about her, long ones, and short ones. Showed them all to her.

I spoke with her over the phone; told her I loved her.

When she didn’t respond.
I hung up.