Thom Yorke’s voice rings like church bells
and my skin sizzles with the holy-shit fires
and my brain becomes a mockingbird singing
over the church bells
and I momentarily forget about the boy
who sparked the flame
that orchestrated my current state
until I look down at my thumb
with the hello kitty band-aid
that covers the flesh chewed raw
around the nail
and remember
that I made him hold the lighter
under the foil
under the tar
because I fucked up my finger
and couldn’t light it myself.
Who is this boy?
He strokes the patch of skin
on my lower back
that my shirt fails to cover
and the warmth inside of me swells
at the tickle of his fingers
even though they’re as cold
as the porcelain of a toilet
and it’s at this point
that I know we love each other
and that I’ve never known
such happiness.
Daryl Sznyter received her MFA in poetry from The New School and her BA in creative writing from Pepperdine University. Previous and forthcoming publications include Word Fountain, Best American Poetry blog, Noble / Gas Qtrly, Bluestem Magazine and anthology Theories of HER. She currently resides in Dunmore, Pennsylvania.
Eunoia Review 