all month long
I was lonely. I
disinfected the
sink. I spoke
to boys in orange
jumpsuits who
were not allowed
to shake my hand.
for Halloween, I
brought in milk
chocolate bars
and the security
guard told them
One You can only
have one until a
boy unclipped his
mouth and said
Okay okay We
get it already
We’re in jail
and the chocolate
flashed quickly
on their thick
boy-tongues.
all month long
they asked me
who I was, what
was I doing. I
drew curly letters
on a board and
passed out
pencils. their
eyes hit
the ceiling,
they said No
No We don’t write—
then wrote about
matchsticks and
daughters, wrote
about roofs
and car tires
and sticky sugar
in cinnamon rolls.
they wrote, and
thru the doors,
in came their
old loves, wearing
jeans and red
sneakers, in
came bedframes,
sports magazines,
nail clippers.
in came brothers,
the feeling of
arm hair against
arm hair and
baby’s wrists,
fire, Drake lyrics,
cups of ice cream,
dizzy spins in the
front seat of
a black car.
and in came
my ghosts,
too: pattering
into the room
with mouths
open, dodging
our hard glares,
arms sagging
with all that
had flocked
and gone.
the boys said
We don’t write,
the room filled
and filled.
by the time
I left, the tables
teemed with
a million
basketballs, wisps
of candy, threads
of lightning, loss,
they scribbled
on tall sheets
with their
pencils. they
did not cry.
every-day,
they blazed
the old ghosts
off of everything.