BY EVE EWING

Moths fall around my ears and I try to remember-
I tried to make the dress fit the front porch
It kisses my ankles in black and
Cars rushed away from trees in the dark

She calls for my mother but the bedroom is only
napping little boy, and the front porch is ours.
I explain that green is only flavored green and
I am stunning this evening,
full of black
for black trim
and lettuce for
my slight lips at the seashells in your ears