Skyscrapers and the dead.
Breath is exhaust fumes and dirt.
I am sloth-like through deciduous maples.
Rain rivulets straight and black like daddy’s
belt, children yell in the street.
Mirrors in the gutters.
An old boyfriend’s memory kicks me,
follows me into the alley.
His kiss, an ending, I should have fucked him,
then told his memory to go away,
instead I say, “let’s find my mother’s lost breasts,
let’s staple them back where they belong.”
© Maria Garcia Teutsch
Photo Credit: Francesca Woodman