The Safety of Gravel

There were   white boys
made brown   by the sun,
drinking it in,   not for fun,
but because   their farmer fathers forced
them.   They spoke slow
and sparingly   as I stared
past the dashboard   at open fields
with renegade   roads
running   through them.

The cricket’s   quiet call
overtook   the radio
and every   thing was still,
nothing   beautiful, but
the grass   was soft…

No wonder   I laid there,
jeans gone,   tee shirt on,
bra up, a   backyard boy
between   my legs
trying   to fuck
with a   whiskey dick,
begging me   to believe
the bullshit   he spit
between   empty kisses
sour from   hours
with a bottle   he wasn’t
old enough   to buy.

I got lost   in the tall grass, let
those boys   rest on
my chest,   breathe in
the best   and never
give it back,   cuffed myself
to crickets,   car stereos
and steering wheels   the safety
of gravel   so far way.

- Tiegen Kosiak

(featured in the poetry forum 04.21.09)

Flowers

She lies like a kitten
on the kitchen table
on a sunny winter day.

The snare of hair
that caught her paws
draws all attention
to her eyes of lightning,
so blue they’re silver,
so silver they’re clear.

Daybreak

and breakfast,
air-dried hair and eggs over easy,
the breaths between
remind me of kissing for hours,
drawing insulting comparisons
on the bed sheets with her body
that warns me nature is fragile,
to be careful or she’ll pay
the way queens pay, with her head.

Good thing it’s too cold for me
to run away without shoes on.
She can’t take that shit again,
when rain came through her eyes.

- Tiegen Kosiak

(added 04.21.09)

Cigarette Smoke

Smoke encircles
the air around me,
issues from a perfect cherry
burning brightly,
washes my worries
in whites and grays,
keeps my mind
far, far away,

ten minutes of peace,
filter to tip,
a moment of grace
while the city sleeps.

He is awake,
hates the smoke,
sends me signals
nonetheless.
I answer back
in letters,
Pony Express.

In the meantime,
nicotine eases me,
makes my limbs flimsy,
eyes cloudy,
mind muddy
for the moment.

I am patient.
I wait to be
enveloped.

Instead,
I singe my fingers,
can’t write
any more letters,
can’t see his signals
through burnt skin smoke
that smells of hell
and replaces his cologne.

Thank God,
I’m not
more flammable.

- Tiegen Kosiak

(added 04.21.09)