Cold, Wet, Sheets

Sheets of rain
Found our bodies
Like cold wet blankets
Covering our clothes
As we rolled in the grass
Staining the other with
Kisses that wouldn’t
Stay permanent on
Our mouths, but were
Washed away with the
Black fat drops.
That was youth for you
Now when the sheets
Cover the ground and
Air, I keep dry, with
Blankets of decades
In between that girl
And careful woman

Crooked Grok

I saw the boy
In pieces
Some were
Made of man
But very few.
Crooked grok
Kept me
Away
In the black
Of dark seats
And car trunks
That hold slivers
Of faked light.
I saw that boy
In scraps
Some were
Made of earth
But none knew
I saw you
Pieces and scraps
Swallowed whole
By moth-eaten
Blankets
Of dirt.

Out of Habit She Knocked

Out of habit
She knocked.
Knowing he
Wasn’t there
But just down
The road apiece
Or maybe miles
Away, by now.
Things, they
Get worn through
Lose color
And people
They tend to
Rot like apples
Growing dark
Spots of
Dead youth
On their arms
And faces.
Things, they
Get replaced
And people
They forget
Themselves
And us.
Out of habit
She knocked
Knowing he
Wasn’t there.

Erin Geil, author of Podunk Moon, has been published in the Calliope Journal at West Virginia University, and has had a piece of flash fiction published in, Diner Stories: Off the Menu. She lives out most of her days surrounded by cats. And can be reached at authoreringeil via Instagram.