Weeds choke, flowers wilt, & I don’t know what marigolds smell like but I want one. I want three hundred of them—a thousand marigolds hanging from the ceiling, like the ground grew wings & our necks became stiffer than beer bottles, our eyes staring at the sky that has fallen to the ground, choking on what has already wilted. What I mean is, it’s been a pretty damn good day, waking up before my alarm, pressed against the heater in your spine, the hum of your waist & what follows to your toes, thinking, Goddamn, what good thighs you hum. You rolled out of bed dressed in what God grew for you. I asked you, How do you always wake up smelling like a moan? You smiled in a math equation I couldn’t solve, but out of the shower you were dressed in clouds, looking like what comes after I do, as you glanced at everything we will never reach.
C.J. Miles is the author of the forthcoming collection, What Is Anything Without Pandas (Ampersand books, 2018). His poetry has appeared in The Penn Review, Clear Poetry, Jet Fuel Review, The McNeese Review, and Gravel, among others. He can be found online here.