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Alex Stolis
REMEMBERING ALLISON ON HER BIRTHDAY
I remember the empty ways I fed you,
the time we climbed the church loft,
looking for God. The morning we cut class,
made love in Loring Park, the ground
rough from winter burned our skin.
Every goddamn day we ran, tired and bloody-nosed,
to the corner of Fifth and Portland, down
the Mississippi's rusty banks, dodged
cops and taunted dope-peddlers, watched
children hide words in their pockets.
We shoplifted from wide-eyed mothers,
crucifix-whipped and loaded, they were statues
without legs, their mannequin arms tugged us.
We laughed, ran 'till our stomachs ached
from hunger, until our breath took short steps
and we stumbled into the brown dirt of falsehood,
collapsed into each other, closed our eyes and slept.
Location: Hopkins, Minnesota Email: Baudelairious@aol.com Publications: Thin Coyote, Poetry Motel, Nerve Cowboy, Illya's Honey, German Nierdengasse, Stirring
