Poetry from Tanner Lee
I love the way you once made me burn
as I slipped and snuck you around
libraries, churches, lecherous
you haunt my body and I yours
alone in cheap rooms, twisting
poured over into remoteness
spill me more, lord
give me wet wreckage. Let me
ache into you, hold you where you once stood,
chilled and blurred, before the maw of night
he rolls me out like friday morning trash.
the back seat smells like milk.
sprinkler water pecks the glass.
tonight we’ll earn our admission to hell.
snap back elastic
bra straps over socks
my head rests on bundled jeans.
he is red and newly grown.
i learn a new use for my hands. he
asks new things of my body.
he runs down my shin like a shotgun barrel
our stomachs clap
with the wet slap of adolescence.
we’re alive, that’s crazy enough.
a fly struggles in the window.
trapped in the glass.
i reach over
a slight image from the body
we pull from each day and wish we
didn’t have to
reach. send warmth to another,
lord, spare me this hour. you hold up
two fingers to pinch a star, a
bulb of heaven that holds the sky so that
night doesn’t fall it glides. you pluck each word
from its nest and whisper that it must fly
before it hits the ground.
tonight we will learn
the easy way. you slide your hand
through my shirt the way a child feels cold grass
for the first time. we are afraid
because now we can never live alone
like deer tracks in the snow
are barely noticeable, but if you find them
they’ll take you somewhere lost.
Tanner Lee lives in Ogden, Utah. His writing has appeared in Hobart, Glass, Lost Sparrow Press, Clementine Unbound, and is forthcoming in The Comstock Review. He is an assistant blog manager at The Blueshift Journal. Find him on twitter @heytannerlee