Sophie McCreesh

blue preservation pill

Her place is forty-seven steps from the jukebox
and there’s an older blonde-grey version of yourself
sniping glances then declaring you shouldn’t have
done this to her while you bring the girl blue freezies
and coconut water for her hangover.
She dotted your letters, gauged pheromones correctly
always stroked your eye-lash curls, thinking bout’
her detective novel.
She’s had a scientific man
who taught her that the word doesn’t start with an F
and these mistakes perspire between
your timed breaths
and you’re running off blue preservation pills which
came from your ex who you used to fuck in the park.
There are two types of people. He claims her body was
made of eye-darts and timed metaphors and some
stayed to watch while others fled, in disgust, and
baby’s killing june-bugs with the anger of a fighting-man
ironing creases out of your fifteen-dollar shirt
with taupe lines from the seventies.
She plays a song bout’ someone who’s dead
frozen, in a state of hometown value ‘till she’s
driven into a silk mystery and doesn’t retain
eye contact with your friends. A nice girl, not all there.
you leave,
sparkling like a madman, jiving down your street
waving to the girls you know in bars
but she’s the one you’re out for, clearing her long
hairs from your chest and dreaming whispers into your
ears and nose and she’s always telling you
your pheromones are lovely.