Ferrari man wants to inform me
If he had a blue bird for every bitch in a leotard, he says
She’s his kind of Jezebel
Drawing skulls on her belly in sharpie
I color-coded their spines long ago
The splay of a foot, black-leathered
He was a preacher man before the sun turned green
Pedophilic cake, he doesn’t approve of caramels
He throws red dollars into his hot tub: slick, we trip over their pulp
Her pink slaw foot, she shredded it on a karat-coated fountain
Tuesday a clean latex against the scrubble of several years of plums too ripe,
Before the Mars cerulean Betty is all Deadbeat Daddy
And his face full of suburbed cherries,
A wet sharp of clean Mondays.
Every day is a Friday we say before the aftermath and chocolate kisses on her thighs,
The rotting lemons pimped out suns that don’t orbit.
She’s still all unicorns motherfucker,
Witch and her jumper cables and green hair gilded mute bird-mouth.
He’s worn the same polo for three days and his hair is a palm tree dead too soon.
The space on her back where we put our Bud Light, Christmas tree scissoring.
We don’t say lesbian but our mouths are starting to look like vulvas.
We take our clothes off only to put them on again, a backwards math.
Tinsel! He knows how to grill meat though, we in our bridge shorts still.
Brynne Rebele-Henry is an Assistant Editor of Verse Magazine. Her poetry has appeared recently in The Volta, and her fiction has appeared in Alexandria Quarterly and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in Richmond, Virginia.