Amy Jo Trier-Walker



When the conductor salutes your vacation,
you know there’s too much gravel
in your coffee, on your roof,
and your hips are too open to walk.
You are not a butterfly in the bones,
so copy a partial—no, could you tell him
for me? Goodbyes are a yellow notice stuck
in your windshield. Report this emergency,
and stop turning to look back at me
over your trash bag of ligaments. Yes,
I hung myself by my earrings
on the coat hook. Yes, pleurisy root
works as a contraceptive except
when you blood the South Shore
passengers: do not run. Very good.
Now keep out of this concrete curb,
and I will keep silent and home
no matter how many turtles you catch
or how I label my stone piles
now that I know the finger-weaved guard-
rails away from your address.
My dead great aunt eats them.




He’s pimping the holy ghost, and no,
hon, you have to jump at 57th. Please
don’t kiss the window; please don’t
just walk into 20/12 in your vermillion–
I don’t want you dirty; I want you
to be the apocalypse and not my broken
ignition, not the sweat in a ditch
under a lifted shirt I wore all weekend,
and if I could just get closer to the window,
I could braid that stranded boardwalk, I could live
until I don’t, but why don’t you sit down, miss?
We pledge to go green for two weeks
after which he’ll look like an old farm family.
Just make sure you turn your hat
before Gary takes you brittle, before you heard
that the composition of brick was all
in how you walk, and if I could just
get this started, she wouldn’t be caught
in the doors, red but not screaming.





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