My mother and father pull at each other in the night.
Light makes their poles flip and they repel each other
by day. I crystalize under the heat of your touch until you
crack me open to scoop the sweetness lying beneath.
A tree fell onto the transformer at the end of the cul-de-sac
last night. I couldn’t tell the popping and crashing from
the ongoing argument of my parents’ bedroom. The whole
neighborhood is without power. The three year old next
door sits out on his front step, sticky with purple popsicle
and grass. The girl at the end of the block is denim and
milk. Her legs drape out of the car window, the radio
keeping her boredom company. I wonder if I’ve ever
looked that fresh, ready to be plucked from a low-hanging
branch. I decide that I must have. Once. Something about
my mother’s flowerbed feels garish. It makes me want.
I fantasize about binging on strawberry flavored candy.
Everything here feels over ripened, like breasts in a bikini
top one size too small. Revulsion and attraction play
patty cake in the driveway. I think about the way your
mouth wanders on my stomach roll as I water the plants.
Lexie Smyth lives in Brooklyn, NY where she is a receptionist by day and a MFA in Creative Writing candidate at the City College of New York by night. Smyth’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Granny Smith Magazine, The Marymount Manhattan Review, Neon Literary Journal, and The Smoking Poet.