Stories like loose nails jut out
from your structure—
French rock stars, hippie boyfriends, the Beatles in Paris.
St. John’s in the ‘60s: Homer and Aristotle,
an anorexic roommate, the Maryland air.

The day you told me about the first time you had sex
we were driving to Jojo’s in the blue van.
Parked outside, keys stripped
from the ignition, casually, in conversation,
like it was something we discussed everyday.
I wondered if your mother told you
the things that you tell me.

Now I hoard your stories, scavenge
for your words, I want the glue that holds you
together, I need the architecture, the angles
of your inside.

I want to ask: what does love smell like,
what color sky makes your skin melt,
what does death taste like,
and are you afraid?

<<Back to Poetry and Personal