Stacy M. Floyd


bianca called today, said she woke at three and caught
the moon stripping behind a magnolia tree.
you know how b. is, instead of saying, hi,
she'll lay some beautiful shit on you like that
and wait for you to reciprocate.

well I sure as hell wasn't going to tell her
you woke with a hangover, and I seriously
considered coating your back with grits
when you stumbled in the kitchen, nauseous
from the smell of melting butter.

instead I told her of the night in savannah
you sat between my legs, and asked
when would I stop running from you; and
I said, when you stop chasing.
you told me I couldn't run forever,
so I asked what would happen if I stopped,
and you said you'd run right through me.

and bianca sighed, oh my god, girl,
just like she licked her fingers
that time she sampled your roasted,
red pepper sauce. that's some beautiful shit.
and I said, yeah, I know girl, wondering
where the fuck all that beauty went.

When not tied to the phone, Stacy can be found wandering the grassy slopes of Coleman Hill in Macon, GA. Her work has appeared in Fall Line Review, Stirring and the anthology, Brothers & Others.

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