ON JAKE—
Lin Elizabeth
You fucked a man who had a 15 year old son.
consensually—you were drunk but still was attracted to him. His voice, velvety deer antlers, the story he had: lost a leg, a business, wife but still fucking kickin’
his potential. Remember that? potential.
He never let you call him daddy, it was strange for the both of you. Back to father you will always go.
You know what they say: Prey is always on its
knees
Recall shot for shot, a young colt coated in Louisiana guilt, selective homophobia, lengthy angry men, highballs and whiskey sours. Hard man with a gooey center.
Sugar on the tongue melting in summer swelter.
False father he became. as always, as they do.
eyes blue like your niece’s hands, when she transferred from womb to world. Inconsolable.
You kept picking at your skin, one night, drunken mumbling with Jack Daniels, a sweet kiss on the lips, sitting in his enclosed garage, rain tapping the metal.
You ask him if love is real.
He said probably not.
In one of the fever dreams he gave you, you saw a younger version of yourself: wild child, unbridled, knives twirling, cotton mouthed.
Wind winding around you like cling wrap.
in the dunes, one of the hardest things to keep out of your mouth is fruit flies.
When you are an alcoholic, your sweat becomes sweet—
His tiled kitchen had so many ants in the summer
You tell him that he is wrong about love. He knows this. You know he knows this. It fits into the pockets of your teeth, you say, into the pores of your forehead, gives you sugar headaches. Doesn’t your jaw lock?
Lin Elizabeth is a 26 year old sober poet, born in the soft underbelly belly of the Arkansasan River Valley, she’s now found resting in the foothills of northern California. Her poems have appeared in Basset Hound Press, Titled House Magazine, Goat’s Milk Magazine, The Idle Class, Applause Magazine and Hypertrophic Press.