Sometimes I write just to write.
I trickle ink onto my fingernail
And flick it onto a page.
Truth per square inch? No,
Just a girl playing clumsily
With her favorite shapes. Ay Bee See.
Sounds are delightful. Delight, light, delicious, pernicious,
Hop-scotch and bandaids,
The crackle of the ice-cream truck’s speakers,
The wheeze of trampoline springs.
Buckets in the driveway,
Soap bubbles tickling,
Making our legs as bearded as our father’s chin
And not making the car clean.
We wrap our stories around common words.
Applesauce - my brother’s face,
Salt - barefoot Jersey summers.
Maybe the words of this poem
Are only mine.
My words taste like vanilla and black licorice to me,
they taste like carpets and vacuum dust to you,
but as I tell my story,
maybe I’ll accidentally stumble
Maybe that’s the point of writing,
to jumble up enough words that whole lives open up
with exclamation points.
(And with maybe an aftertaste