Bouquet of balloons in the back seat.
You swat, adding fingerprints
to the latex covering drifting fists
of noble gas. In the rearview I get glimpses of road,
your heated cheeks, the cars nudging
the few feet between us
at the lights. I don’t ever expect more
than glimpses. How we both got a mouthful
of crabapple pulp today when all you were after
was a single bloom. How you substituted dandelion
for daisy when the oldest charm
rattled through your head: She loves me,
she loves me NOT. And started shedding yellow.
Lately, you’ve relied on I didn’t mean to...
Which means everything I own shredded,
everything I own fragile. Like a balloon
floating into the front seat, static
a kiss with teeth.
* * *
I just got word that my poem, Blown, is a finalist for the August Goodreads newsletter.
The newsletter goes out to approximately 3 million people...and each edition features a poem.
The poems are shortlisted by judges Wendy Babiak, Andrew Haley and Ruth Bavetta but members of the ¡POETRY! group select the winner.
I've been submitting to here and there over the past few months but have been a bad group member and haven't been checking back all month and leaving comments on other people's poems.
But I got a few comments as the voting period drew to a close, which is kind of nice.
Thanks to my fellow May Day-ers, who gave good comment on an early draft of the poem.