The Modern Wolf
Melon shoes stomping all over the cup
crinkled oak, we are invincible dancers.
We order only waters from the bar and
wear pants instead of dresses, and I love
the feeling of hair on your back. Statistically,
of course random colognes would pounce
on real-life lesbians. Who are you here with?
under the clouds and static, he tries to kiss
us both. Slobber always results in threes:
stitched quickly to my turning cheek; the beat
of the song where I braid Emma to my fingers;
pulling her away as hard as I fucking can.
Counting to eleven, we order water
and try to get our hearing back.
With the number seven, I leave sliced arrows
dripping crayon wax and the denial coating
the garden vines. You’ll always be here,
waiting for the holographic ASAP sign in my
window. You’re not evil, not intentionally
anyway. You are the ultimate problem-solver
without the answer key hidden in the back. In
the sun-dried tulips, you were still searching
for me as I picked out the caterpillars two rows
over. When I found two dead butterflies in the
mud, you nobly waited in the greenhouse fan,
and we didn’t meet again until well after
you began feeding me. Then, you were there
everyday—in the pale blue, in the twinkling
white board, in the bandana basement, in the
cafeteria’s bin of spoons. I wouldn’t say that
you visit when I need you, but grandma says
tears are prayers. And atheists need some kind
of faith, too.