Two Poems
Me, I’ll tell you it’s not personal, but I opened / my sugared lips to the June pink cotton candy / sky and all the sweaty dance floor promises to come / when we snuggled in a blanket on the couch, holding / hands together which in junior high was terrifying / to me, though not to most girls I knew, and this boy . . .
Cillian Murphy’s Face
My goodness. I can’t stop looking at it. Just flabbergasted, really. And I know. I know the feeling will pass. Soon, I won’t remember it. Or I’ll sort of remember it—the memory incomplete, the feeling stripped of whatever had made it burrow into me and stay there a little longer than I would’ve expected. All I’ll remember is having felt it and not the feeling itself.