as i
push my glasses up,
my fingers still smell like you
arching
up, body bowstring-
taut. behind me, the road
spools out,
a necklace of red
tail-lights, and i imagine dancing
my way back
to the crook of your
neck, mottled in purple and gold.
S.Y., “archery”
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I.
i made a mistake.
II.
find my mind flighty and fighting.
see body like rock,
eyes erosions to tunnel through
to excavate the viscera of
what makes me like this,
stable to scared in six seconds
flat.
III.
i clamp my lip between teeth
like bleeding is learning to be better.
if only blood were bitter,
a tincture to cure my tendencies.
S.Y., “don’t dwell on // what you fucked up”
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jealous bony cagey fingers and
ropy muscle have kept me down
in bed, waiting for something.
the crack of blue and the ray of light
through the curtains might be it.
day after day of trudging and
i still see shadows in everything.
but the red leaves and
the gamboling pup
soon teach me
how to breathe again,
show me how my cavernous chest
can erupt with joy.
S.Y., “evergreen”
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she grins
hacksaw-feral.
ruby teeth,
& yr throat is
pulp —
S.Y., “on two legs”
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peel back
my frown lines
late summer
melt-in-your-mouth
bittersweet
heart
sinking
marshmallow
airless and hot
pocket starburst
sticky fist
ooze and undulate
above all
stuck
on you
S.Y., "candygram"
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so many times
have i been
berated for
innate weakness:
pinned-back skin,
overexposure,
indecent
pain.
so the pretender
spawned scales over
flayed flesh,
hardened little plates
that
fell at
first feeling.
for i am no
fish: i fear drowning
and so much more.
and i am no
weakling: i withstand
naked nerves—
can't live
without.
S.Y., “ectopia cordis”
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puddle-patter
rush and
slip into
bruised bravado laugh
again and again and it is
pleasure not boredom
tiny variations:
i frog-hop
i foxtrot
i make a new friend
easy as new skinned knees
my hand tight in yours
S.Y., "far and wee"
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refuting porcelain some summers,
I smith my skin copper
walking ankle-aching,
wearing near nothing,
slow strolling,
plant pulling,
hand holding.
in a hundred years,
lay me down
verdigris gorgeous.
S.Y., “oxidation”
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you float me.
i'm borne up,
giddy on the
crook of your
elbow and other
such trifles.
what a load
of hot
air.
S.Y., "balloon girl"
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my carpet's covered in
picked-up pennies
even though i don't
believe in luck,
do i.
(oh, but your buckeye
is in my backpack and
i still talk to the stars
when i see them.
(and oh, there has to be more than
quantum chance when
broken hearts can learn to grow
into this new kind of love—
quieter and more distant,
absent of romance—but
love no less.))
S.Y., "cynic, pt. ii"
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my heart,
voracious
battering ram,
has a dream:
fighting out
my chest and
into air,
declaring redly,
I DON'T KNOW
WHAT I'M DOING
BUT
DON'T TELL ME
WHAT TO DO.
EVERYTHING
WILL BE ALL RIGHT.
S.Y., “like a voice”
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am i
a poem
cannibal
gorging on my
gorgeous
self:
fistfuls of
crumby words
S.Y., “hypocrisis”
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Tonight I dream you a longship,
light and narrow and Norse.
Heeding Longfellow, you pass me in the night.
The moon is new.
You are invisible to me and I to you, so:
I am terrified.
S.Y., “Unmoored”
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fingers glide over thighs,
trace sugar-plum bruises.
remember me loose-
limbed under you,
brain limpid for once
in a very very blue
onetime moon.
why,
i'm foolish over you,
bristling at distance
so few days new. i
wish this were pure
wanton but i know
better. i know this
waiting, this whispering.
this wanting, too.
S.Y., “philagnia”
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1.
itching to move
scratching at seat
2.
more specifically:
itching to move
towards you
3.
i have ants in my pants
and other things
in my pants
too
S.Y., “it’s finals and i just want to bone someone (i.e. you) but instead i have to write these goddamn papers”
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your head was on my shoulder and
my pulse so strong and quick
I worried it would bruise you.
we hurt each other so well.
I relished
the sun and
your fingers
on my bare back—
didn’t so much that
your eyes were on him
the whole time.
what of the aching knees?
what of you in my mouth,
shower water in my eyes
and ears? what of hands in hair,
cool thighs on hot cheeks,
half a night of tangled sleep—
so many yous
with different names,
so many wonderings
that sound the same:
do you still want me after
that one day?
S.Y., “Mayfly”
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it is time.
i am running through mucosal fog & i am clawing at my mottled thighs & i am squinting at the glare & my eyes are helpless against the sharpsharpsharp daylight—
is it is it is it day? it is for juuust a moment and then no, no more, now it is wet & it is clouds & it is damp washcloth over face & it is damp washcloth over heaving chest & it is FLASH
it is last night & it is seventeen years ago & it is poolside in february & my lips are forget-me-not blue they are blue they are blue
o, they are blue
my mouth is cotton-
tail rabbit's foot-
long john silver-
spoon
and my lips are blue.
S.Y., “drowning dream”
[20/30]
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