Two Poems

Ash

You’re the first line of a “Dear John” letter, ink smeared by magnolia sweat and paper cuts. I want to take you through a shredder of lipstick and beer composed at twilight, watch the little pieces twinkle towards the sky caressing space and burning miles away from me, again and again. I would push you until you’re just stardust, and I’m a cigarette floating in the rain. Upon Reading Langston Hughes I am twenty-two years old, the daughter of immigrants, dark curls, a soft drawl, wearing pearls. I’m a student from the poor side of uptown with plastic flowers in my hair. My heart beats like a pencil tapping on a notebook. The city streets I follow home smell like salt and gasoline combusting behind me—from the pavement, to the sidewalk, the stairs, and I’m in my apartment sipping Pabst Blue Ribbons, tying ink-bows. Is it true? I like to sound out prose in French, swirling the words like Listerine across my teeth; I want to never curse aloud in anything but poetry, saving syllables in the creases of my fingers. Do you trust me enough to believe I saved them for you? And now we can share soup and describe our days, and when I’m menstruating we’ll toast to surviving another month.