Emma Weiss

No One’s Favorite

Cherry blossoms
only bloom
in Washington.

We grew them
once,
I wore them
once,
you pressed them
once.

Now,
argyle grows on trees,
and
you sew it
into your socks.

Pork chops
for dinner,
no one’s favorite,
just to be fair.

An unhappy equilibrium:
let’s lie on the linoleum floor
and
zipper ourselves up.

Let’s serve
charcoal
for Christmas dinner.

Let’s sip on sawdust
until our throats
crack in half
and we
collapse,
crazed.

 

After the Handshake

I have a dream about my
dead grandfather.
He takes out his disjointed fingers
and puts them in mine
and they form
two moist towelettes
dirtied from his frown.

Clouds too low,
air too slick,
grip too tight.
He watches our
hushed conversation
between two
naked,
shivering
ring fingers.
Bidding goodbye,
I head home and
sleep with dragons
and their smelly ashes
of forgotten lessons
and proper demonstrations.

All I do is think,
and
everyone else does it right.

Lips has first rights.

All poems ©2016 by the author. Used with permission.

About Emma Weiss
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