A few months before the crash
you slid chicken skin down the vegetable shoot.
How you get here, girl? She ran
two boyfriends: Hunter & Chase, so you know
I’ve got a Remington RP in the nightstand
& you asked to borrow the hairdryer. Till then, the closest
you’d come to technologies of death
were your father’s hands / mother’s neck. Each night we watched
Naked & Afraid, hot stuck in the mouth. Peeled
Kraft White Singles, Airheads in blue
raspberry sour, Snap’d
Butterfingers, as the screen gleaned her iris
ordering dumbbells off Amazon.
That year you proposed: difficulty as a means
to unhinge grief. When Spring broke
you split & went down the Keys, sucking the green
from two root canals. The way sugar turns
to acid in the mouth. Men outside IHOP said
they’d have to paper-bag your head
to stop themselves.
Kate Crowcroft is writer and poet. Her work has appeared in HEAT Literary Journal, The Best Australian Poems series, Visual Verse, Australian Poetry Journal, Prototype UK, The Review national newspaper, and other media.