Red wings cross my wrists,
Lapping with a sacred thirst.
It is as warm as mother’s milk, I coax,
Comforting, like a Xanax sojourn.
My lips moving, sending words to God’s ears,
Doubtful they’ll ever get passed the stars,
Even with the noise in my head turned down low.
“Sport, I say, they used to dance around me. I was
The center, the gravitational pull. I think I’ve turned
Out to be not what they expected.”
I also did not know that this woman I’d become
Would be pushing them in me like needles filled with heroin
And stuffing words into shoe boxes marked:
What could have been.