To the Woman Sitting on the Front Steps
Ash collects in your collarbone gulch
Keeps you cold despite the dirt.
The rubber on your heel tips is gone
Moths eat your flannel as you pull camel lights.
Cigarettes are continuous life.
A butterfly waits in your window
For the fog to blow away.
I wish I could remind you of the song
A sparrow makes when winter comes.
Such fine minutes wait in the morning grass.
If you ask kindly I’ll make your belly soft.
Lick your sins away.
When the tradition of sadness
Chops the backs of your knees,
To crush sidewalk leaves
Like little cities
Make the Gods see with
Eyes like yours.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 49 | Spring/Summer 2017