I.
underneath the white sheets
there lives:
a floorless house
remnants of exploded stardust
a dog’s favorite tennis ball
cut up scripts that once fell from someone’s mouth
broken kite string
strands of gold woven into the bristles of a hairbrush
and
i could not see where the white sheets left off
and she began
or where she left off
and the white sheets began
II.
a great universe exists here
in the spaces between the discs of your back
small stones
put them in my pockets
carry them to the river
behind the alabama farmhouse
and skip them across the water
sinking
weighed down
let me straighten your spine
III.
your voice is like florida thunder
when you say
“it’s not like that, with you”
with lips like egyptian pyramids
built from the work of the slaves
that have been there before me
i taste the limestone
after all these years
IV.
the beds of my fingernails are
sp lit in ha lf
like chinese chopsticks
that can’t be held right
“crack my fingers”
is morse code for come closer
V.
the day you decide to make the bed
will feel like:
heavy metals sinking into my pores
the branches of the backyard oak tree straightening like a queen’s back
a nest of blue jays using their feathers for pillows
the sun’s rays striking the neighbor’s housecat
rough winds blowing away every eyelash
before a girl can make a wish
and the world will never recover
Shelby Curran recently graduated from Florida State University with a degree in English: Editing, Writing, and Media. Her work has appeared in The Miami Herald, Jewrotica, and A Wider Bridge.