(I apologize in advance; this poem needs a lot of work.)
Psychology & Wine
At first, when she was nervous, the girl
peeled the skin from the back
of her heels—nibbled her lips,
until they were nothing but pulled
onions, the pale moons surrounded
by red clouds. Lunar landscapes.
Created in silence.
These were the things she did not leave
out in the open. Instead, for you,
there was a sort of scarecrow
mingling with the weeds
alongside the mailbox. Its size
more so related to a doll’s,
the eyes, the lips, all stitches
in too much sunlight, staring
as if telling you there was mail,
as if telling you there wasn’t mail,
Your final solution: the secrets of skin
in a painting. The stars, their age and paling
into duller shades.
Then: the skin of her arms, her neck,
captured on canvas,
trees and blankets, combined.
Her hair turned green, turned blue
with sunlight, the white of her skin
shining like alcohol,
more destitute when shown.