Chew
Adi Martin-Rueben

it is the pink peeking through
i say i see it, i nod
chew the color back into my thumb
and we celebrate the solstice by the vending machine
splitting a pack of peanut M&Ms
hatching our own december
in handmade incubators.
my biology textbook never had diagrams for
this particular brand of off-white splintered stillness.

sifted moon sand sticks to my scalp
and we are barefoot and we are flourescent
blue ink smeared on the back of month-old receipts
vague outlines of the morning when
when we drew maps from memory

it is a thing of the upper lip
cracked over crystal knuckles,
those glow in the dark ceiling stars still hang around.
i tell her
sometimes all i can think about
is crumbling into ten thousand moths
and she plants a garden
of new words and sunburns
in the soft skin of my cheek, says
you are not invited
to leave just yet.



←     →