Liz Looke

Loss

Winter cut tires,
my fingers,
dead batteries,
back of your mouth sweetness,
nausea at a cocktail party,
the fire is warm and neon if
you squint your eyes
towards the sunset,
breaking open over this place,
the snow has hardened into a skin,
flecked with mirror,
and no one can talk enough,
mouths dried as my hair,
blown dry to prevent sickness,
and the holy grail of bath
water down my purple limbs,
I shudder, but not only
because of the season,
insectile heart, doesn’t
listen to a single inverted word,
body caught fever
flowers composting inside,
I don’t remember you,
but I remember the
way the world was,
peppered eyes raised on
silence and pink dresses,
you ask a question and the
answer goes on forever.

Author Bio

Liz Looke lives in the Bay Area and is currently working on her first book of poems entitled When the Deer Bites Back.