I’m chasing chariots.
Spitting out the cherry stems
and tracking postcards with my heartbeat.
When I was seven I wrote
something ugly in crayon
letters green and hunching and angry
and I meant it but I’m still alive and
somehow I’m always still alive even
when trees collapse and Fords bend themselves
into concrete and fingernails dig through bone
to open an aorta, somehow I twinkle and
hum into another morning, another morning
dusted from the heels of gold leather pumps.
Why do I bruise so easy? Car doors and granite.
This morning I am hungry and honest
I don’t know how else to say I miss you