I wouldn’t be caught dead in the covers
with a pillow that wouldn’t smother
all my fantasies to dust
The boy who drowned in beams of rust
sucking birds of certain feathers
out from behind both of Heather’s ears
They lived behind her eyes
with names she couldn’t care to memorize
This budless tongue I’ve bit before
bled with a certain semaphore
poppy seeds and plastic lungs
Props to the ghost that wasn’t hung
in the peppermint lighthouse on the coast
My ashes fluttered from a cutting hoast
over the sea and garden fires
into my sheets through seaweed wires
Avant Literary Magazine 