the nights spent in your basement. blowing smoke
through a fan pointed out the window. your family
shuffling above. my feet off the end of
the shag rug, heels resting on the cool cement
floor. that summer we tried to be honest.
we kept the same rituals, me more so.
you picked the movie, zach synder’s 300.
chests upon machine-chiseled faces, two eyes
and two eyes, two more. arms, elbows
and metal jagged as cicada shells.
the summer sweat covered us like a heavy
coat of grease. i hate school, you said.
and i heard you. and when i slept i dreamed
i skipped a stone across a dark pond.
@timpoulton