Gray Clark
to every city some man loves me in, pt. I
I show up at your house
with a bundle of lavender
trying to not be fragile
a clothes line hang up
in the town you last called me in
This is not Denver
We smoke what we dry
let die slower what we don’t
sitting in the bay window
you notice my legs
sweaty palm leaf through
a book you knew longer
than the lover who lent it
This is not North Hampton
The bathroom light bulb is yellow film
against dark night pushing in
elongated triangles of shadow
where I wash my face
on the edge of your bath towel
here is today’s flushed cheek
slipping into a nightgown
This is not Allentown
your mouth a backyard
you tell me to not talk
risk our trust or falling in love
kill the garden in my throat
extinguish the lamp on the bedside table
I can’t sleep
I can’t sleep
I can’t sleep
I can’t sleep.
Gray Clark is a poet from Columbus, Ohio. They have previously been published in Heartbeat Literary Journal and Arcturus Magazine. They currently are studying visual art and shifting into the hermit they always longed to be.
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