Eelish

Stricken, seen, satellite at the edge of a party,

being fifteen, with the black bulbs someone’s planted

in the mother’s lamps to give glow-in-the-dark

ambiance to hideous kisses, and the ruffles

are all wrong on the saved-for shirt, and the curtains,

suave in the murk, seem to laugh. The liquidy

fin of feeling is destination-less, twisting

like paper wrapped ’round a pinkie

in blind date anticipation. Toy for

the psyche, phrase to swim through the mind

like an offense, at 3 AM.

Half-helix, as if waiting for, Oh God, don’t

say it, a soul mate. What sheathes the stealth

bomber has something of its skin. Pastiche of pluck

and terror, nerve faltering halfway. Opposite

of starlight, stagnant brook that drowned Ophelia, JPEG

from a former colleague, on holiday, landed in spam,

looking older and captioned, Well, here I am.