Down

The roof’s sway is subtle enough for me to name a bird out of stillness before it flies away. You have to have money to get your feet on the earth up here so I lower my longest arm, dip it in dirt, put some in my gums. Gets my heart bucking then I’m running with legs that used to, out to where parts of me dangle from baby mobiles because he never put the car in park to look over and let me down. The taller the Texas Freefall got every summer, the more I wanted my skin on the notches, made flat like a watery pump soap, like the back teeth on a retainer, crossed my arms and legs so I could rub off some of my wrist with a temporary tattoo in the wave pool, have a wet sandwich in my mouth while being yelled at to walk, the sorry for being fast really being about the bikini. There were only two, but all those hands on me till I felt famous, called myself a whore, then took the show on the road. Shoe Carnival’s free little fake socks sing “Jesus Take the Wheel” long after I deliver the groceries for $20, Joni’s spots on apples, occlupanids, plastic bags, and Red 40 to do drugs in a house the color of light, to be pretty in a tuckered out basement on a couch at a party. New York doesn’t want me anymore, given the slowness. But my shirt’s unbuttoned, my socks are compressed, I’m a couple new animals for the taking. 

Liv Campbell‘s love for poetry was born when she got to read her stuff at open mics in random basements in Indiana. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Does It Have Pockets, Big Whoopie Deal, The Beatnik Cowboy, Triggerfish Critical Review, and earworms mag. 

A Song for Liv