Poem by T. Dallas Saylor

What in this Sonic milkshake makes me
pocket my phone, blow your name
in straw paper across the table, and ask
your ghost stories? Humid night, your bare
shoulders showing off a scar like teeth. Tell me
about your cold dad rising tall, your brother’s
breath, how you heard the wood snap. Stack
your corn-dog trays on my undead sins
till the pile sways in your pale fingers,
and toss me a mustard pack as you ask me
something I can’t have back. My could-be
beloved, tomorrow the season will burn off
what’s left of the lives we built here.
Your dark eyes spell-wish in whipped cream.

T. Dallas Saylor is a PhD student in poetry at Florida State University, and he holds an MFA from the University of Houston. His work meditates on the body, especially gender and sexuality, against physical, spiritual, and digital landscapes. His work has been featured or is forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Colorado Review, Christianity & Literature, PRISM international, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Tallahassee, FL.

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