So much of your time spent with your mouth propped open,
drowning down maraschino cherries, popping on
a flattened tongue, soon enough, the whole of you
would be splashed into a flaming ruby that hands
became deaf and numb towards, leaving fingers to stare.
Lovers laid clocks at your feet in curiosity, as if
it could be different – the critical ellipses
would not crystalize into the rope around your neck,
silencing the depths of your belly, the sounds
that could not be swallowed or licked away.
The only girl who could sing it sadder was Judy,
and she sang it, but you both swayed under an elm,
one dripping red, one dripping black, and they lapped
up the pool, turning excess into spun sugar cotton,
shining sweet underneath a blood moon.
Jessica Sheets is a freelance writer and editor, holding a B.A. in English from San Diego State University. Her poems have appeared in Yay! LA Magazine, The Los Angeles Review of Los Angeles, and The Fem. She is currently working on a chapbook manuscript titled Naked Selfies.