Ivana Stepanova, Go Round
Bottle Tops and Empty Hearts
Gracie Jones
An itchy sofa covered in holes
with mix-match, squashed cushions.
My shape carved into its skin.
My feet dangle, reach towards
the beer tops covering the floor,
his feet, littered by them.
Hazy breaths mix in air.
Another empty bottle rests
beside white powder on his coffee table.
Remember the days: pick daisies,
thread them into chains,
tie them around my neck.
Blanket on the ground,
boxes filled with sandwiches,
filled with cake–
The sharp scent fills my nostrils,
he shoves the clear glass towards me
and lovingly bites my neck.
Gracie Jones
An itchy sofa covered in holes
with mix-match, squashed cushions.
My shape carved into its skin.
My feet dangle, reach towards
the beer tops covering the floor,
his feet, littered by them.
Hazy breaths mix in air.
Another empty bottle rests
beside white powder on his coffee table.
Remember the days: pick daisies,
thread them into chains,
tie them around my neck.
Blanket on the ground,
boxes filled with sandwiches,
filled with cake–
The sharp scent fills my nostrils,
he shoves the clear glass towards me
and lovingly bites my neck.