within the choices, the ivy threads through the
patterned, worn, and tattered pieces of my youth
its blood a mixture of punctures that weave circles of
skin and bone into forgotten stories
tucked in corners where candy corn and ice-cream drips dried,
flying into dust devils

along a path of smiles without corners with a cigarette
hanging like a tired aching pig-tail
apple pie reaching forward to grab a knife to cut out stars
sailing on the hook of the half-moon
smells traveling to the old willow oak as sap drips
absorbing the smell within her bark

longer fork, which is like parchment paper under hand-made
buttermilk biscuits
hair falling below her hip-less figure and still
developing breast, the color of cream
her…