Before Our Date, I Decide To Change My Headlights // Nailpolish
Before Our Date, I Decide To Change My Headlights
Okay, I hear you as you
point out this avoidance, me
standing in front of my car,
hood baited skyward, and blame
me, sure, for choosing this
second to switch the bulbs
even though they’ve been
my passengers for more than
a week and cutting ties
with my car’s black eye
didn’t feel right until right
now, thirty minutes past
when we were supposed to meet
at your place where you’ll roast
brussel sprouts and chicken how
I like it, how you know my taste
in wine and cheese and vegetables
and that’s the issue, the knowing,
your crafted observation
my friends keep calling care
but my throat started burning
the moment I pulled out
my clutch, I should go, I think
my lunch was sour, no,
sorry, that’s my heart
-burn, no, it’s you
calling, asking where I am
and I’m about to lie, say
I’m tangled up at work,
that I’m still figuring
out which direction
to turn, but instead,
I answer, admit I am
outside, trying to
undo the dark.
Nailpolish
My first trip to the nail salon
I choose Starry Starry Night,
dark blue flecked with various
golds, while mom dawns
her hands in Bright
Gleaming Sun. “When I was
your age, we’d catch lightning
bugs in jars, watch them dapple
the ceiling, and then smash
them on our fingernails
so our hands would glow.”
On this mulberry night,
the forest and fields glisten
with fireflies, and I
only see hands. Floating
hands playing peekaboo
in front of my eyes,
hands lightly guiding
my back to the sky, hands
laughing as they squeeze out
light. Bottles of lacquer spill
onto my windshield,
evening drive turning
graveyard too fast.
Shimmering under the kitchen’s
incandescence, her polished hands
present me pies, potatoes, thanksgiving
cornucopia, death's decoration
always there, invisibly bright.
