Anneysa Gaille
Word count: 1254
Paragraphs: 23
The Things That Don’t Make It into Good Songs
miscellaneous bruised
pelvis bone bumps
manifest post vineyard lighting
storm sex accompanied by debris
stuck on monogrammed bath
towels we shouldn’t have taken
outside where rain sweat
and cum became interchangeable
as my blood on last night’s ibis duvet
I’ll probably pay a fine for shedding
cracks no longer moistened
by another humid body high
above what you like
to call the fucking atlantic
Peach Lipton is a Scam
though my feelings for you aren’t
‘cause they’re syrupy sweet like that bullshit
iced tea we’d never drink on buffalo
bayou’s banks with our lips
sweated salty sorta like how they’re getting
right now shadowed beneath this
weirdly aggressive June Saumur
sun just beyond reach of my mama’s pool
bottom feeder which sprays through its surface
occasionally reminding parched air of alien
weight while I consider snipping the crisp
plastic label from your emptied bottle to tape in
these pages as an embarrassing relic
crystallized by shared cashews for lunch
Without Knowing Why
I’ve never thought of you
while listening
to this marley moon song
but now all that was quiet ain’t silent
tenacious as a tidal river’s ascent
up mossy ass stone steps where we drink
more screw-top wine than any two
people should be creeping
back back back away from watery hours
until necks incline and hips inch closer
on account of wind that’s fucking
up our attempts to ember the edge off
How the “Bee Happy” Mug Chipped Over the Handle
sitting in bonnets of blue everclear
heat lightning thundered on your
forgotten front porch sprinkled
old powdered mushrooms
steeped while never trusting that night
would not be the last moment
imprinted on pseudo lush tastebuds
boiled round beyond skylight paper no longer
shielded by deep st. augustine leather malleable
as buffalo bayou is beautiful on fire
or screams tickled metallic
by hexed roller coaster rides
come rodeo season in march
when tooled snip toe boots
will threaten to take flight once
calves tease our lonesome lonestar
night with yo-yo promises
accessed via excessive tickets
Buffalo Bayou is a Bitch
unapologetic in her hatred
of ozarka and h.e.b. grackles
who’re convinced they’re better
than mud blessèd herons
with legs skinny from too much
hazel water caressing dance
sometimes captured by kayaks
on reels for what is called
instagram that makes others
care about her oft choked pulse
even though she’s never given
a single silver fuck
about how we want guiltless
enjoyment or whatnot
from Once Upon a Cicada Moon
one could say it all started at the rodeo Mama
when little sister’s ex-best friend’s older brother saw me smoking or
standing with T & C who were smoking too close to G-Force
huddled together
reckless shining with sterling crowning hips
hammered into prayer
or applause for all
these words men fear when
our moon appears on the wrong side of the parking lot & as
cumulative emptiness centrals one might be
catapulted into nighttime screeches huddled
amongst carnival faded stars
sliding beyond I-10
down down down to
Buffalo Bayou
beneath unbitten moonlight drenched in Everclear
forgetting where
overpriced screams hang heavy as one cloud tickled metallic by rides
gnawing against the presence of need
inseparable from skeeters
voices are
disowned into existence now
I am a we & we are the last of myself
projecting scenes of childhood
on the banks of Buffalo Bayou when I
was an I & this I slid down the storm drain like a slide stuck on
repeat somewhere inside 2009’s green eyeshadow
that cadence of what could
hum humidity
yes yes yes
here
I can rest real easy
&
the storm drain
warms with every drop milked from
unwanted touchings that
away from slicers
without regret
bargaining
for every step
flesh once
in the back of an ambulance without
sirens while shadows
hunted cicadas through bluebonnets