this is a poem
for teenagers who kiss in graveyards

this is a poem for
dry leaves-- for
steam off my flat iron--
for my chipped 
black finger nails-- 
this is a poem
full of elegies 
i wrote to myself--
for nights i used my
windowsill 
as a mother--
for night i jumped 
& splashed next mars--
this is for teenagers
who kiss in graveyards--
for a dead bent 
maple tree
on cemetery hill
in Kutztown-- it's boney
fingers fishing 
for our bodies--
catching us like
a grandmother--
watching us
while
we wrapped ourselves
in grass stains &
hyperbole--
wrote
our names on
the back of our hands
as approximations
for tombstones--
a poem for
snake coil 
ear bubs with one
speaker blow out
from too much Green Day
this is a poem for
feeling small in
the mouth of another 
person--
for reading
graveyard names
like your own--
for taking a spoon
to dig yourself
a bed-- 
dirt cold under 
finger nails--
this is a poem
for zombies &
for trying to 
fall in love with
vampires &
for mud caked
on Chuck Taylors 
& for laying
under moon shadow--
the skeleton tree--
the red moon
full of all the blood
we've managed to
rain from our bodies--
this is a poem for
bathroom mirrors
& the people
who
look into them--
for re-applying
black nail polish--
for leaning
up against a car door--
one ear bud in--
making
fog on the window
with your breath
& tracing a heart--
your heart--
your heart as phantom
& fleeting 
as its outline
in the window--
this is a poem
for you