fast

i wrote this poem a while ago-- one of the few things i've written while under the influence of a drug. so excuse me if it's not exactly fantastic, and realize that i wasn't exactly thinking straight.

I.
the favor that she asked from him
really would have killed her mother
but when you're young, your mother
is invincible and so are you.
that's kind of why you sort of
try to die without stopping or
thinking or giving a damn.

II.
but you do die, and so does
your mother. everybody fucking dies.
but when you're young you don't know
anything at all. nothing. except maybe
how to live right.
so he went and did that favor
not realizing that two bodies
could transmit death, more deceitfully
and painfully than cut, dying daisies.

III.
because she asked real sweet
standing 'neath the street light
on the corner of Fern Street &
Danbury. she looked pretty and sincere.
just sad. and a little bit scared.
so he said "okay,
i'm game." "let's go," she said.

IV.
her mother was home that night
cleaning up the table and
wonderin' where her daughter
was & not knowing that her
baby girl knew how to ask a
boy to lend her his body.
her mother's kitchen was painted
the same color as his room.
everything that night hurt
for the passing of time.

V.
time ends for some people.
he died the following summer
from something inside of him
that was hers in the beginning
ans she stopped and thought and
gave a damn. and she wasn't young
because she was not invincible









she had angry fists. clenched & quivering, and he wouldn't look at her face. but he took that fist into his hands. grazed the smooth slopes of her knuckles with his lips; closed his eyes; let that softness over come him opened his mouth a little & whispered into the lines between her fingers; "i made a mistake."