and in the shop…
in anthology –
“Don’t Think of Tigers”
The Do-Not Press
At 3am, a knock. It’s not my house they want,
a string of men for the peroxide blonde next door.
They wait, wolves watching quarters of moon.
When I was nine, men like these came
as I collected blackberries, while my parents,
at home, drank themselves empty.
They dipped into me like I was sherbet,
as my friends spun buttercups,
searched for yellow under their chins.