All Over Town
I find hell: a summer of your hands
against the sun’s sharpening,
light arching its spine
where it strikes your jaw, cherry
paint job of a car named
for me. How long had we been
misbehaving? In the months
I let you take me
for a ride, the riverfront lay
itself out ahead of us, sighing
with wood rot. Still, it felt
like heaven to me. I could
peel my sweatstuck skin
from your upholstery,
imagine plastic bags rustling
in switchgrass as blossoms
in a garden while you tried
your hand at saying
I’m sorry like you meant it.
A summer that owns me, you
taught me how to plead:
let me lick you clean, love
you like an orchid
flicking its forked tongue.
I find hell: a summer of your hands
against the sun’s sharpening,
light arching its spine
where it strikes your jaw, cherry
paint job of a car named
for me. How long had we been
misbehaving? In the months
I let you take me
for a ride, the riverfront lay
itself out ahead of us, sighing
with wood rot. Still, it felt
like heaven to me. I could
peel my sweatstuck skin
from your upholstery,
imagine plastic bags rustling
in switchgrass as blossoms
in a garden while you tried
your hand at saying
I’m sorry like you meant it.
A summer that owns me, you
taught me how to plead:
let me lick you clean, love
you like an orchid
flicking its forked tongue.
Taylor Brunson is a poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where she recently graduated from UNC with highest honors for a manuscript of original poetry. She serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and an assistant nonfiction editor for Nashville Review.