Vanessa and I talk.

We like talking.

The smell of acetone and wine

fight in the warm air.

A lull of

Avett Brothers music fills the

silence.

Our nail beds

burn,

from too many attempts at

and when you talk in your sleep the voice is never your own

and when the world ends and the next begins our radio stations

will still patiently recite their numbers. (dear mx. god,

is this how it feels to be replaced?) In the wilderness,

I remember Pauline Miller. Before she moved,

She lived in an understated, light green, box of house

on Raldoph Avenue.

She lived there for a long time.

Hair up

Tarp down

Pop

My mother uses her strength to cradle

Our liquid gold

Douses the pan with potential energy

And snaps the blade to its wand

The brush crackles and crinkles

Screams