01-25-2018, 02:48 AM
Mess
Shirley Temple was my drink.
She slid over to me
with her parasol and swizzle stick—
take a sip, she whispered.
Pellegrino foamed on the edges of the glass,
a transitory froth of infatuation songs.
It splashed onto my flats,
maraschino as Santa's cheeks.
The cherries were velveteen and sweet.
I pulled their stems out
and they began to pulse like hearts,
erupting molten taffy.
The next morning, the maid scrubbed blood
out of the carpet with seltzer.
Then, I woke up.
Shirley Temple was my drink.
She slid over to me
with her parasol and swizzle stick—
take a sip, she whispered.
Pellegrino foamed on the edges of the glass,
a transitory froth of infatuation songs.
It splashed onto my flats,
maraschino as Santa's cheeks.
The cherries were velveteen and sweet.
I pulled their stems out
and they began to pulse like hearts,
erupting molten taffy.
The next morning, the maid scrubbed blood
out of the carpet with seltzer.
Then, I woke up.