I was reading about a woman’s mental demise when the phone rang.
Smudging halts erosion.
You descend from the stairway,
I remarked, “you are not nude.”
I don’t hear you while your socks are on.
You could be at the last ditch behind the horizon–
You could be next to me.
I cling to the rules of domes,
A plastic sheen enclosing our world.
A straw basket or a cage for small mammals hangs outside the shuttered business.
Who gets to have a redemption arc
Not even to avenge
Or betrayal of indifference
Intimacy, a silo of smoke
A gun into a color.
Found trinkets, fresh lawns sealed:
Brooklyn in May is the O in June.
Yielding after a jaunt
& the skyline with no guests for the first time.
A dive into wreaths, pollen, twins,
Misguided heat re-enters.
Inscribed or stolen?
I like this better, don’t you?
There’s two options to be had:
Bricks or accountability.
Rocked by a flux of never exhausted thought.
I have no wish–
To a circle of polished headstones.
Almost in reverse.
Is that what a gun looks like?
Against the veneer,
So far, it’s the door’s adornment.
MARIE LÓPEZ is finishing her poetry MFA at The New School. She has published work with Bodega Magazine, Newest York Co., Another Gaze Film Journal and Shit Wonder amongst others. She is originally from Miami, Florida and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York.