Moss

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

Today I will make things smaller:

basil leaves, broken down cars, incessant worry.

I will wrap them in bacon and close my eyes

as salty and sweet tap dance on my tongue.

 

This year has spent so many nights breaking me apart,

in glow of blue lights peeking through parted lips.

The heart on my sleeve thuds for tomorrow,

like a jackhammer, like a tsunami.

Figure skates its symphony against my thoughts.

This axel-spun figurative language flirt is always drunk on everything

its never said.

 

After morning champagne charades, in arms made of liquid.

Nothing will hold.

Why does everyone else get so much quiet?

 

I tire, searching for mine in rocking chairs with chipping paint.

On borrowed couches, and happy hour bar stools.

Talking to men who chase change as if it was wearing a skirt.

Time a breathy blonde, both poison and the antidote.

I will never understand her, me or the noise.

The noise,

like rain on a hollowed Sunday.