By Sarah Perlmutter
The pieces of a puzzle
I gave up on last month,
waiting on my living room couch.
I know you ‘cause I saw you
sneak a needle through my skin,
swirling pink and purple
intoxicating my blood stream
with your nonsense, changing
the map of my brain, adding
a detour to your condo.
I think it was an experimental anxiety med,
but I cried myself to sleep,
woke up guilty and in love
with men with long hair and boy-ish grins
as wide as the wings I need
to fly away from perched crows
on street signs telling me,
I’m moving too fast
but it’s not fast enough
to get me where I need to be.
Where do I need to be?
I know you ‘cause you waved at me
across the street with no name
but I only stood and stared
feet sinking into a sidewalk
I don’t belong on. I was born
in another town with a name
that I forget.
It’s not the same.
Trust me.
The blue sky changed somehow.
I know you ‘cause I saw you
paint the sky, holding a roller to the air.
An artistic mad man, on my front porch
handing me
an empty paint bucket.
I think I know you.