Honey, I am just a girl with some insides
who wants you to take your socks off.
Ride the subway with your bangs in your eyes.
Let your chest fill with dirt.
Say winter and mean gasping,
flowers you forget to put in water.
Honey, it’s okay that we are the aftermath.
Our veins are not rivers of lava anymore
and this is better.
When all evidence of lightning is gone,
I like you pinned against a wall.
Honey, kiss me with more tongue than I’m used to.
Put on your black bra, wrap a kite string around my wrist.
Think about this starlessness we have found,
your boots filling with snow.
Honey, I feel it when you want me and when you don’t.
When the bathtub is dirty but you still sink in,
the lit candle promising
a shore littered with shells that break under our feet.
by Jennifer Hanks
Jennifer Hanks will be an MFA candidate at the University of New Orleans beginning Fall 2013. Her work has been previously published in journals such as Foxing Quarterly, (Almost) Five Quarterly, Softblow Poetry Journal, and Glitterpony. She currently lives in New Orleans, LA, where she spends her evenings writing about the apocalypse