annie savage sings me a garden one friday night
I.
she’s compact and fiddle
I hear croon
and cow colored folds
she’s short and strumming
a two instrument jam
with male skull opposite
you know each other’s flannel
a bear appears behind you
jumping feet and closeness thigh
how you do hold yourself in public
girl and guy fake it
dying to bite flower chime
sing to me in the back
in all black and proximity
echo
hide and stammer
tap it fall over smirk
our circle that drives us apart
a slow bargain never leaves the
blue grass green
state it economical or too animal?
my neck is the size of hers
II.
Annie says muskrat to all of the boys
and they grind their mountains ragged,
strangle ties and grab their selling babies
bleed scrap metal music yard
all of the dying Mondays reek
and sweet bus driver blues moan
Johnny says he thanks the bus
driver for bringing her to him
when it’s that serious do we even
know? Steal the violinist,
the trestle and the howl
the carrot cake promise
Your lips move to others
eyes too big to taste
even a wolf can thunder
applause: wet : a drowned handkerchief
and swim across a raging stream once
will I hear
will I try
will I
try try
try
a power to the third position
and falling asleep under angels
are over There is no exit
no to do list
no written set list
to sweep and burn
III.
Annie mocks the spring
and so it snows. Why did ya have to
go and do that Annie?
She wanted sunless ghost cheekbones
and I wanted to crash into humble
shoulder gods. A Goth rumbles
down my creek side, careens with
jackals and a death rain shadow
mocks the relentless wind?
the opposite resides in my organs
they burn orange and jealous
in this fake love season
play connect the pain and
we are landlocked and hot laps
we are slam the door on a dog’s paw
Why can’t I feel
your beard and sun-soaked eyes
and sandals for weeks.
Annie prolonged the winter with her fiddle
You grow me: water my fingers
type faster to reach you
you play disease and mourn
you grow taller and I steal your dirt
I come. I plant. I stable for you.
Tell the others it wasn’t up to me
A mix of Stockholm syndrome and a bundle of guts
wrapped up in temperature control
This prison suits me. I grow like a weed.
No one plucks me: I protrude barbs
Drop seeds that fester
Don’t spade my vines
I’ll come back stronger
I’m established now
you didn’t blink
until my poison pellets
drop down your gullet.
Glint Literary Journal 