Purples in the sky
Lily Ross

The mosquitoes
lick my hairy  
legs with their
yellow tongues
when it’s golden
hour and I’m  
trying to journal
or some shit.    
I itch my left  
foot    on    its
left side and
little       white
flowers 
drown in the 
sun’s wet skin.  
Red shorts
say bold,
casual,  
unopposed to
homosexual  
activity. Some
trees look
green and
others look
gentle, and my
skin is peeling
tic tac toes
every time 
I lay outside for
too long or
think about the
way your
perhaps 
cooks itself
into my letting go.

When was a  
poem
supposed to
make sense,
when does 
personificatio
n stink like
my 
dirty kitchen–
cleaned in the
morning,
soiled by 8pm.

There’s a
spider in your
fresh  
orange juice and
it’s turning pale
and pink by the
minute. There’s
a squirrel
hanging
upside
down, blank
teeth  
clacking in 
your stomach.  
Your stomach
deep throats
its own  
ah-hems 
every time a  
teenage girl  
fights a  
motorcycle in
the hours before
the wind takes
shape.

Shapes shift 
from smooth 
circles to 
swift ovals, 
pouring cool 
sidewalk 
cracks  
in-between  
your        eyes
and
stretching
out     towards
the  
purples in
​the sky.