for Frank O’Hara

I don’t know why I put my hand up
like a cloth when I should of peeled out
its odd purple veins

and left them outside in a bouquet
for the sun to spill onto

Sorry    I am ridiculous

Come back       I know you are dead
but I will drive you home
and pull out my hair to make you laugh

I will not talk about my own body
or cloak myself in the smell
of a feeble cucumber flower or a boat

I am so good at being alone
with this terrible wheezing sincerity
 
 
Lucy Tiven is a female human being. She likes walks in the cold and wine that comes in a bottle with a bird on it. She has been published a few places: Front Porch, Word Riot, Twenty Something Press. She tries to write about many different things and experiences: minutia that feels important, important things turning out to be minutia. She wants to jump in a body of water.