Ode to the Poet at Seventeen

after Larry Levi

I see my youth mostly
in the slurred lips of a costume
party        backseat of a Honda        black pick-up
truck where you smelled
like a lie I wanted to believe in
like wisteria drunk
on the weight of itself        heady like vanilla-
scented morphine        unpacking all the boxes
I didn't fit into        then folding me
so fit into the walls of your torso        birthmarks and freckles
like how a berry takes shape
inside a crevice        falls asleep inside
a question lulled        by birdsong and lonely
lyre        stubborn hearts
club where dreams dust and spirits start
aching like sad stories        told on special occasions
like the exact science of fizzy gums
and yearning        or a love poem
like a worry-worn wound anticipating
an unhealthy obsession        or a heavy rain.


Kait Quinn
@katequinnpoetry