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Rebecca Ramirez

04 Dec Rebecca Ramirez

BIRTHDAYS

 

You sneak
fires
across the meadow
your veins
azure, alice
Birthdays
that part doesn’t stop—
twenty-five years today,
more tomorrow.
It’s insufficient
but without it
would be insufficient too,
now the nightshade’s
shoring up/impassable
smells heavenly
but can’t find it—
Dusk
never loud enough

 


 

BABY

 

I.

The wave is bitter
baby-blue punk
and shattering
like these shrapnel tears
I paint on my face.
I wanted to be your baby,
that day, that year
I hated you
I didn’t believe in the flowers
and used to throw them
from your window
and let squirrels ravage your bedroom
That city, that year
my death
was polyamorous
And very much
so alive.


II.

I fantasize—
catatonia
is a rose garden,
once wispy, pale
and now shades of gold and gold-
en and dusk-esque
No longer yours, not mine,
but Machines of the Evening
stuck in a backbend
watching me
with almond eyes
not their shape, not their
color
but their drought;
what they are
responsible for,
eyes that will lose their light
in about five more years
like they’re supposed to

 


R. Ramirez is a poet & artist in LA. She is writing and driving, for now. Find her on Instagram @lunchskirt.

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