by Amy Soricelli
You could not show me happy in a paper cup -
sides sticky from the weight of your tight fingers.
They have held her for too long and have left imprints like bird feet in the snow.
The lines on your face like a roadmap where you met her - how it came to be.
There is not enough ashes from flames to leave hot boiling scars down the side
of your street -
road signs tipped - half-born thoughts bunched up into jars.
You have this history crammed deep into your cheeks - dusty odds and ends;
leftover snacks on the seat of a train.
The last drop of milk-signature on the dotted line.
You have this place on the side of the road knee-deep in rows of planted things;
you think you climbed a mountain for her but don't remember.
She loves you furiously in the shadow cobwebs of your laundry room.
she loves you on the phone to her mother - she screams your name down alleys.
you say this new love is fresh off the truck/unripe fruit giving pause to short tempered sentences
whispered on the back of your hand.
you say it defines you now - holds the glass up to the breath.
a number in ink that washes away in the rain.
cement is her name on your lips.
mine is the one on your heart.