the rug by the door. the tongue

-tied twisted loops
                                i am reckless

driving east on 76 intoxicated

by skunked memories
           smoking in the garage
before mom got home

                           black lunged
i-wanna-be-young
-again.    only
to change
                               my course
of history.       of course.

dandelion petals    torn
in two.
                  into something
not a flower.          no longer

the sour taste stays
on my tongue

(originally published in Across the Margin, Summer 2020)