The sun is setting in
Harper’s Ferry.
The girl on the train
has become your girl
with blue shoulders,
poking through the sheets.
Muted TV,
lights
painted on skin.
Smelling my palm
as it cups my chin
to remember that bar
of soap
I rubbed across your back.
Thoughts float over
the blanket
you hold with both of
your hands.
The mystery was sexy
but now
we’re making
plans.
Soon you’ll see
that my fears end with
and.
When stretching
to expand,
I’m bound
by
rubber
bands.
How could I sleep when I
never land?
Each night
I become a pot of soil,
falling backwards
and off
a
windowsill.
Chest open,
back arched
like
echinacea’s
pistil.
You came for the garden
but I’ll choke you
with weeds.
Assumed it was fertile
but the drought
swallows
your seeds.
I never needed to
speak with words;
you hear my
misery
in my
mistuned
chords.
Guitars orgasm
at the rub of
my fingers.
Nails
brittle.
Desire is a
tea kettle,
shivering with sweats,
asking before it loads,
will I explode?
We speak truth now
when before
we spoke in code.
It’s me you’re talking to;
even ignorance
can forbode
when it believes
it can
handle.
I was your girl with
blue shoulders
but then you
changed
the channel.
© Stephanie Khio 2024