By KRISTA LEAHY
Cold beer, slippery hands, cigarettes no one (everyone) wanted,
smoke from our burning lungs summoning the night sky,
not-tying the horizon closed until even toothpick jokes
stopped propping our eyelids open and we blinked,
hands slipped, smoke ceased, not-knots loosed the day–
roof, streets, people, trees, all dressed in the bruise of first light.
Not sunrise, but sunbroke, sunbroken: pale, blue, eyelid ache.
Tonight, let’s clasp hands, postpone sleep, try not to blink–
share a beer, trade smokes, tie earth to sky, imagine
tomorrow, unbruised, horizon, unbroken, our skin
stripped to our toothpick bones, hot ivory
cigarettes no one (everyone) wants. Smoke stings
but don’t blink. Brave the burn. Burn the bruise.
Not sunrise, but sunskin, sunskinned: fresh, red, flesh un-ache.
Krista Leahy’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tin House, Raritan, Free Lunch, and elsewhere.
