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
2017
