Torn Up Tonsilmouth
we’re both so unhappy we’re all so strange
the flashing light of passing cars is, tonight, a lure and, tonight, we’ve run out of bait for each other
so maybe we’ll throw each other into traffic and dance with passing semis
which know so much power in this twilight world
and, in this twilight world, it’s important to know how to swallow yourself
and I’ve stopped eating unless one third of myself steps out and watches me probably because
there’s still something in our scents that loves itself
the carpet in the apartment is churning water
and where we used to be will soon be cold, but right now we can pretend that anything is warm
warm is the dead nun in my father’s memory
he tells me about her without a name because names never last as long as they should
he speaks of her as a goddess, as a witch that could never catch fire
no matter how many lives she managed to burn
the corner of our bed stays untouched because our feet are focused on fumbling over each other
outside there’s another collision splayed on our wall as a kaleidoscope of red and hard sound
we’ll stay in bed another hour until we both fall asleep
then who knows where we go
maybe I’ll be a car alarm tonight and I’ll sing you my forever song
Jacob Fowler is an elementary school teacher living in Oakland, CA. He recently graduated from Pitzer College with a BA in World Literature. His poetry has appeared in Barren Magazine, Levee Magazine, Ghost City Review, and Riggwelter Press, among others. You can find him on Twitter @jacobafowler.