Half-hummed:
a singular track along
the crisis line.
West Texas drawl, jailbird
minutes, a gloss over your eyes;
you guide my hands
to be the catalyst
for some sincere heaven.
Cutting through windows:
laundromat blue, metallic smile—
I wilt in your eyes
so you water me.
“I want to see your teeth,”
so I stand in your thunder
(gold-mouthed, open,
in the morning) and I giggle when
you tell me to.
Ghost of a cheater on math tests
and more, I’m wasted
in the microscope
of psychiatry.
A million rattlesnakes—
I set you ablaze,
pull you back from jargon:
cortisol rush, dialectic, absent
bitterness.
I’m not liable for the ebb and flow
of what pools inside me.
When I cut and put a dollar in the vending machine,
I’ll think of your hands against the bar.
If I find your name among the violent,
I’ll say a prayer and disinfect my knees.
— Francesca Miller-Barrett (she/they) is a poet residing with her spouse and cats in Chicago. She is a two time recipient of the Ruth Cooley Poetry Prize, awarded through the American Academy of Poets University and College Prizes. Her work has been featured in Parquet Poetry. You can find her on Twitter @francescapoet.