Little blue city
This weekend I slept four in a futon & I picked the best spot
next to the best boy because I knew he would hold me & he did
We named the mouse scratching on the hard wood floors
We named him Freddie & the boy kissed me
with his good hands on my blue face
Earlier I typed out letters on his typewriter
It got stuck & I said I’ve broke your typewriter
& he ran to me & got on his knees & said
My Queen I love you
but if you break my typewriter
I will fucking kill you
but I hadn’t & later he kissed me
in the cold bed in city drawn in such darkness
& that boy he loves everyone
Sometimes that’s okay with me sometimes it’s not
you have always spoken to me in code:
when you lick the chocolate from your fingers
when you smile & laugh & say "it's good"
it means "it's okay to eat to-day."
& when you giggle & say "i don't get it"
you really, really do—you think that
sometimes, it's useful to play the dumb
woman. & when you yell from upstairs
from the wheeling pitch, from no laughter
& no paint, i am no allowed to take sides:
i cannot pick my best friend, she's your claimed kin,
& you are not my mother but
you whisper daughter behind my back—
i am a caught fish, i dangle from the red line
that spools backward from your cancerous throat.
when you were well & we were not spies & there was no code
i washed your dishes & we made our own theater, pinned back curtains
of t-shirts, pillowcases, & size 0 jeans.
our audience had a sweet tooth so we gave them packets of gummy candies
to protect them from our quiet glances.
now you lie in a white bed.
your daughter says you are very small,
your tongue is swollen & you can't talk at all.
Stella Cabot-Wilson is from Colorado and Wyoming. She now lives in NYC.