paper plates and brains by Erika Hommel

I’ve had Dr. Paul’s number for two days,
two sweaty, pre-fall, pre-orgasmic days,
in Virginia, where the weather drops like flour in a down pour

that means a lot

where the rocks are a darker shade of gray
and the trees bleed black water into lime green lichen;

hovering across
the sloshed asphalt all I think about
is calling
made a go at the old girl
but she wouldn’t play
stitching grasped at each other’s thread bares
 her record skipped
rasping, pimpled concrete block
till you get it straight bitch
blood doesn’t just imply the truth
It demands It
too long at humanity, coinciding, like a sleep over
and you’ve been left out in the hallway
or a piece that might be detrimental to the development
of this fetus exercising her rights inside the wooden cap
commonly referred to as a skull,
not much
is connected these days
and often I can tell you
when the spinal cord flees
in different directions
and dissects the park
And all it’s unhappy occupants,
bubbles people,
bubbles,
there just aren’t enough-

And few enough have none, it will be the last lost cause if you don’t stop
stamped before an explanation of this

(Stop)

weak and willow, fall back, under cover and protected,
Let’s play pretend, never used, never touched,
Let’s be crystal

Let’s play clean-

Yes, let’s.