Churches and Kickstands

Once a man from LA left me

under a lamp post on Bluff Street

where the crabgrass would scissor

 my toes. He said I drank too much

 boxed wine. The second time, I

 reminded him of water, a motel,

and something about zombies.

I spilt my Thai Tea and he bit me

 in his Chevy Impala and whispered

I know, I know. I never understood,

the way vicodin could dumb that

 flaxen street. I don’t have to feel.

 Feel so badly when I’ve said too much,

 it’s the Sunset Blush squeezed from the

 plastic bag. At 31 everything seems dead.

 Once a man from LA left me in a poppy

field on Bluff Street. He told me

 he’d be back for me in two years.

The clock says four and I’d do it again.

 

***
Tara Channtelle Hill is a mother, a poet, and graduate from Northern Michigan University. She has been published in Carcinogenic Poetry. Tara lives in Marquette Michigan and wishes she were married to Richard Hugo (if he were alive) or someone like him.

Tagged with →  
Share →

One Response to One Poem from Tara Hill

  1. I read this post fully concerning the resemblance of most up-to-date and previous technologies, it’s amazing article.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>