moonpie (a golden shovel)
did you grow up tired too a socketless sleep your pink eyes
pitted peaches do you know you’re unwhole missing spit are
you tired of being the kind of beautiful that half-lifes is your mouth wide
enough to hold all these stars can I feed them to you do you like
how I speak in sticks of butter how I cradle oranges how I let you knead cherry
chunks off my cheek how we smoosh together and make moonpies
did you grow up tired too a socketless sleep your pink eyes
pitted peaches do you know you’re unwhole missing spit are
you tired of being the kind of beautiful that half-lifes is your mouth wide
enough to hold all these stars can I feed them to you do you like
how I speak in sticks of butter how I cradle oranges how I let you knead cherry
chunks off my cheek how we smoosh together and make moonpies
to norman rockwell (a golden shovel)
there’s nothing but hope
anymore. all i can do is
sit in silk and lapdance for a
miracle, or a dangerous
god. some strange thing
to ravage my teeth. and for
what? i can’t sing any more. a
girl like me is only a woman
when everyone else like
you removes their shoes. me?
i wear heels, gator-sharp, to
scare off the storms i have
stalking me. listen--
there’s nothing bright now, but
we’ve lived like this before. i
remember a white kite flying. i have
to believe lightning will strike it.
there’s nothing but hope
anymore. all i can do is
sit in silk and lapdance for a
miracle, or a dangerous
god. some strange thing
to ravage my teeth. and for
what? i can’t sing any more. a
girl like me is only a woman
when everyone else like
you removes their shoes. me?
i wear heels, gator-sharp, to
scare off the storms i have
stalking me. listen--
there’s nothing bright now, but
we’ve lived like this before. i
remember a white kite flying. i have
to believe lightning will strike it.
Back Home in America, I Think of You (A Golden Shovel)
With each bus stop, a wobbly kiss:
sliding sandpaper. You’d drip off me
like bean juice, opposite the day-old, hard
Asda breadbirths. That stubborn Putney fall: before
our backpacks smushed plane seats, after you
kissed me in front of the glowing Eiffel. How we’d go
to Camden town, swallow the city like a summertime
popsicle. How it melted. How I lap up the sadness.
With each bus stop, a wobbly kiss:
sliding sandpaper. You’d drip off me
like bean juice, opposite the day-old, hard
Asda breadbirths. That stubborn Putney fall: before
our backpacks smushed plane seats, after you
kissed me in front of the glowing Eiffel. How we’d go
to Camden town, swallow the city like a summertime
popsicle. How it melted. How I lap up the sadness.
Samantha Fain is an undergraduate student studying creative writing at Franklin College. Her work has appeared in Rattle Poets Respond,The Indianapolis Review, SWWIM, Utterance, and others. She tweets at @samcanliftacar.