April Fox

Category: asheville poetry

July 30, 2015

Written

And in this sorrow, we create ourselves: faces sketched in dull graphite, erased and drawn again until the lines are blurred and the edges of our eyes are indistinct and the creases of our mouths are parentheses, capturing all the things we never said. In this sorrow, we are written indelible and clear we are…

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July 20, 2015

Scene from a Dive Bar

The whores are dancing in sensible shoes to the beat of the songs that they loved in their youth Once upon a time, they might have been pretty. Open-mouthed, scanning the room, looking for something they’ve lost they are better loved than all of us they are tired and want to go home.

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July 10, 2015

Scribble.

And in the middle of this, there are lines drawn in chewed-paper crayons and apple-red lipstick, in pencils with metal eraser bands sharpened and cruel, in the sand on the sidewalk outside a long-outgrown day care’s fenced playground with a stick, dragged behind carelessly In the cracks of the mirrors, the anger-creased palms, the wrinkles…

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July 10, 2015

Toll Bridge

I think you might have dropped this here. I think you might have left these things behind, stuck to the bottom of your shoe and fallen off, or caught on a tiny piece of lint inside your pocket, and let go when you took a dollar out to pay the toll. I think you might…

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June 9, 2015

Paper Doll Nightmare

Such a lonely boy, sitting in the corner pulling off the heads from all your little dolls twisting up their limbs like rubber bands, angry that you never had the strength you need to break them Poking holes in fragile skin, stabbing orifices raw They are headless spewing bile from their bitter brains Even bruised,…

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May 31, 2015

Lucky.

He brings me books: A biography of Elvis Costello; a notebook from 1932, filled with careful script: a schoolgirl’s notes on history; Tom Perotta and the like. He sings to me when I can’t sleep, tells me stories about bars and hidden tables talks me safely toward the morning, through the dark. He sits across…

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May 24, 2015

Blackberry Winter

Blackberry winter, they call it riding in on the backs of the long, hot days of early summer creeping up your arms and legs like ticks to suck the life from you and the breeze is a violent embrace, and the moon is pale and thin and the light from the stars is always an…

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May 19, 2015

In Spring

In the spring, when everything began to grow, we sat in a field of green and yellow spinning dreams about the future. Yours was set in stone, and I was there Mine was outer space and I was waving at you far below, a thousand miles away. In the spring, when everything began to grow,…

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May 19, 2015

Drawing Lines

I am drawing lines on the dark in silver sparkle markers and fluorescent yellow crayons, dragging brushes through the stories that I took too long to tell, painting I am not the end of this all over everything. I am not, have never been the pounding heart, the arms and legs gone numb have never…

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May 14, 2015

Old Women

They are relics now, standing side by side in crumpled parchment skin, flesh-colored stockings, sleeves and masks left too long in the fold pile slightly damp and scented of lavender, sunshine and mildew…

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