Deathwish

When we were little, it was all backroads and grasping at foxtails. You played Suicide while I picked seed heads and threw them like darts at your clothes. “We’ve got to get home,” I’d say, and you’d come along, but not before at least one driver cussed us out.

Love was mostly proximity. A consequence of web-like answers to questions like “To whom were you born? What school district do you belong to? Who are your neighbors?”

Your mother was friends with mine, so everyone thought we’d marry. But I didn’t want a husband, and you didn’t want to live.

Misanthrope: A Collection of Poems is out now!

Purchase the Collection

Subscribe now