back again
©1996 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
you are a problem
that i can feel sliding down my throat.
my tongue slips on your skin, roughly.
your breath, once soft, brushes my fingertips
as you gaze into the bygone schoolyard,
eyelashes fluttering
in soundproof harmony.
the stench of ivy guards you,
leaks into your soul
the way your freckles crawl up my arm.
like aaron clark’s scarious skin,
you come alone to rock springs,
destined to stand behind me
and watch its demolition.
but you are not alone—
we have watched one sunrise together,
when you spoke of polymerizing like butter—
because you touched its fat, it killed you—
and while you lie around, i’ll come back again.
the obscene chimney of your schoolyard
questions the effortless sky,
and we stare in disarray
at the flowers climbing the bricks
with their evil eyes.
as i gaze through the walls
that you could not see through,
i know that the empty schoolyard will beckon
silently.
loneliness will haunt the ground
that we stand on.
the violent ivy intertwines
with the ruination of rock springs.
it seems that although memories
don’t haunt us,
everything lasts forever to please its ghost.
“don’t step on the flowers,”
the ivy weeps—
i step back away from them,
although they had called to me first.
i can see the chimney puffing
black soot,
covering you while your freckles weep.
