barefeet on the balustrade

river

i waited for you for months i looked at your form and fell enamoured i pointed my fat toes
delicately/to slip through the lips of the window; my lids slammed on grit when i realized the
frame had closed, plastic sills sliding past my skinned cartilage // next time, i hummed. next
time // i twirled in my dress made from patches of grass made of patches of passed, endless
fluttering and bloating and rippling and turning and smiling and tiptoes, raised arms, elbows fall
and sparkly things discordant jingle and slammed stopped into an airless wind; i see you again.
sliding open. ~ I peek close, my thumbs stroking the glass to find it faked moss, I don’t recognize
you at all. ~ i lift my bare calf to climb in anyway then ‘member we’re supposed to dress for the
occasion. ~ i press my face my thumbs against the double panes and scan the closet. what boring
clothes are this? why was i excited for your shopping racks to spin round again? i can’t wear my
prom dress, these torn boots, this starched long stocking braids to marble krystal camouflage
tessellation. | if i try to step through this window will i trip on the tasteful attire and what's the
use of blood in everyones’ steps? but when i lean my head dejectedly against the turf | i see a
sequin peak ‘round the jackets, with feathers and beads and plastic cat ears tucked feral, springs
twitching. ~ this, i remember. this is the dance i came for. ~

about the author

River (they/them) is a queer poet. They have fabulously queer children and a cat who does all the magnificently cat things that cats do.