California Is A Fucking Home Wrecker | Emily Joe Watterson

We are naked

Together

When we are fully clothed

Save exposed toes

And twenty feeble fingers

Tracing spine

And greeting our corresponding prints with

Familiar and distinct satisfaction

No sound

But the plead and pull of gravitating hips and lips

Inconveniently cracked

And revived by your invigorating stem of hand

There are no words

But frequent upward turns of moistened mouth

And the occasional clash of bare and ruthless bone

Your face rests on my unembellished shoulder blade

And it is the most intimate we have been in months

We don’t speak

But you know

That I will never say goodbye

America Library of Poetry —— 2013

Ghost Trains | Emily Joe Watterson

I came to a stop

Slow in the land

Of ghost trains

Empty suitcases

Strewn

In lines of heather

Soft as I ran

And my fingers they licked up every piece of yesterday

In this barren dust land

And as I pushed down into pockets

That I’d wished would never end

I knew the place existed

I knew

Some hand had placed

Each And all

Of the floral hand painted

Deep green oak handled

Sweet silk-lined suitcases

Yet the question I asked

In this barren dust land

Was which man had named these roads?

Leftovers | Emily Joe Watterson

I took the remaining scraps of my poetry

And wrapped them up in a to-go box

Tipped my finger to the top

Navy nail to the always-lyrical Styrofoam prison

And scratched “Later”

Threw it in the back of the refrigerator

Stood back and strung together the magnets we had bought

To spell out “Never”

Can't live in the now

Not when you aren't here

To leave coffee stains in my clothes

And ruby red marks on my neck

Can't deal with my leftovers

I am leftovers

A Broken Man | Emily Joe Watterson

I found New York

In the eyes of a man

Broken and alone

I watched

Silent

As the broken man filled his rain boots with tears

The broken man strummed

His faithful guitar

Water running down his back

I found New York

In the broken man's broken hands

As his melodies filled Central Park

With a dream

Balloon Catchers | Emily Joe Watterson

We were the balloon catchers

The tree jumpers

And bread carriers

We were the coat pocket hide-n-go-seek sunshine pals

We were the cat walkers

Boy kissers

Closeline hanging dirty-kneed trousers

We were the satin cigarette on the tip of your fabricated tongue

We were the toad capturers

Drum beaters

And flower crown crafting field runners

We were the carriage-pushing crocheted

baby blanket thinkers

We were the picnic havers

Pipe smokers

Bunkbed whispering wing flappers

We were the paintbrush whisking tulips

of your withered garden

You are the war fighters

Love hunters

And pumpkin-patch hand-holders

You are the carnival-going popcorn

smile throwers

You are the music dancers

Test-takers

Picture-taking flower-pickers

You are the world fixing babies of

our destruction

Here's the world, child

Don't mind the bruises