Kissing Telephone Poles By Anita Ofokansi

Kissing Telephone Poles

November has you shivering at the gas pump.
There’s nothing romantic about fading to black and white
but you have never looked as flawless as you do now,
lips cracked and bleeding.

You move through life with your shoelaces untied.
You howl at radio towers.
If I didn’t know you better I’d say your skin was rotting tree bark.
If I didn’t know you better I’d say it was only the cold turning your knuckles white.
We are all just surviving.

Listen, the insects have come out of hiding to sing your name;
I know that temptation, have bitten the insides of my cheeks bloody
trying to keep every letter locked in the cage of my mouth.
But now I sing your name to myself like a song I still know
the words to despite not having heard it in years.
I think I love you some place in Denver.
I think I love you car crash.
I think I love you unconscious in a ditch somewhere.
You will be the death of me but I am dying all the same without you.

You are a wolf in the cloudless sky.
A bouquet of goodbyes.
Winter has not gotten over you, and neither have I.
Tangle me in your rosebushes, fill my mouth with thorns.
Kissing you felt like frostbite,
angel, my lips burn with silent nothings.

I feel I must confess.
Yes, it feels so good to say it now —
You force of nature. You beautiful disaster.
Drive slow.
The roads are slick with ice and dangerous,
I miss you terribly.

By Anita Ofokansi

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