Chlorine, cigarette smoke.
We stretch our limbs
in snappy pool water;
filled with black beetles and beaten moths.
Yellow hair in blue-green light.
Wet eyelashes and hard mouths.
(Five feet,
three feet,
ten feet,
drown).
We are learning to celebrate,
learning to spit.
Powdering our noses in stranger's bathrooms,
and skinny dipping with drunk boys
in Calvin Klein briefs.
I cry in your front seat often,
and drag on smoke stacks I'd rather bite in half.
Eleven pm and the radio whines,
while my cold arm dangles out the window.
While the black crow carries keys.
While the moth tries to swim with watery wings.
