By Emily Corwin
photo: @didsss
A flirtation received via cell tower and it sounds like he’s down on one knee right now.
Agave nectar and tequila, negroni, gin and champagne: it is a false medicine.
I get sloshed, plaster cosmetic-grade glitter on the faces of my sisters.
Hickory fire, snow thunder. Peal of hammer, crow, and bell.
The plumbers labor down below, rowdy as demolition.
Today is National Worship of Tools Day; I cut the hair out of my eyes.
A child slumps against me, asks: Are you a teenager? Well, you act like one.
How are you doing, kiddo? the other adults ask me
I purchase dresses online in the Pantone Color of the Year: “Viva Magenta”.
Don’t wear anything colorful, Mom suggests before the viewing and visitation.
The wife beside the open casket, bragging: Doesn’t he look great?
Mother meets her hand to yellow: this is primrose.
The fitted sheet: rusty as iron oxide, as Ibuprofen tablet.
I decorate myself for carnage— blushing, ravaged, a plateful of pink.
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