Your tiny scapulas mushroom in splintered chromelight
from the window pane, a cat’s paw of air
twists you across a blotted mattress.
Snug eyelids shade
dreams from dilating t.v. rays
–roaches whisk in the fridge’s gloom.
Your sleepy wheeze blooms spitfoam,
the deep kaleidoscope in a chrysidid's eye.
The rats behind drywall
count sheep. I trace your brow ridge,
how it is mine and how it is not
and think how years from now
you will drift
down Holt Avenue plastered, and appear
in daydreams– making homes of sofas.
You stagger in hallways
perfumed by stale Black & Milds
distilled grain stench on your tongue.
How the moonglow will convince
you it is a crown.
Contributor Notes
Adrian T. Quintanar is from Pomona, California and is the managing editor of Chapter House Journal. He received an MFA in Poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts, and his BA from Hampshire College. His work has appeared in RED INK Journal, Santa Ana River Review, Hinchas de Poesia and is forthcoming in Peripheries: a journal of word and image.
