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.