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Fox Hallow Farm
by Nicole Assenza
that sweet, sting, and spit?
loud, wisdom is a gunshot to the mouth
in the back and hit your tooth—
everyone hears you scream (in the telephone boothe)
sick and zipped up, bouncing Gatsby, “higher!” to golden lovers;
then exit to your motivation
that light is flashing;
you’re calling me Lolita
off and on
and laughing, you inhale, amnesiatic:
it’s a ploy of smoke and cinder—
there’s no way to explain
the sickly grace you’ve acquired
thingified:
vibrating gait and a notion of stares
pie-eyed and traumatized, but alive
you’ve already planned your death scene
flashing off and on,
“hey, Lo,” you say voice low,
living on cold comfort farm
full dark, no stars
07/01/2013 Author's Note: swimming in fear, and the mannequins posed up don't care.
Posted on 07/01/2013
Copyright © 2024 Nicole Assenza
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