Shooting the Shit

By Emily Pohl-Weary

- for Emily #2

My finger picks at paint.

We are sitting on old rockers out on the porch,
remembering decades of processed food:

rainbow tie-dye of hippies
who drum badly

movies with idols
we wanted to dance like

spin-the-bottle kissing games
going too far

The summer sun,
scraped knees and stained glass,
anarchist patches, babies, mosquitoes, abortions.

We live close, like the hairs on my leg.

My finger peels off chips of your life
while the sun peeks in
through slats in my clothing.

I am wind.
I am holes.
I am gaps.