autumn koors-foltz
refractive error
the sky is green
we go to the powder room
in the mirrors. you keep
telling me your blood is
like lucky strikes, it tastes
like all these hung drawings
in the post-haste of god,
of poptimist, and you
and i struggle to see
with lights in. mirrors
you wouldn’t believe
the trees run digital.
animal. i flicker
a bad omen. nothing
i know; i am serpentine,
what you’ll say
you need from me, right?
i kept mishearing you.
wrist tattoo. singing
prey, now, but still
sitting on the mint stools.
then it’ll be over.
and i’m losing something.
like a campus preacher.
to hang pictures
telling me what i can find.
an embossing ink pad.
of cereal milk. it’s strange,
you pasteled of jesus.
i’ve picked up the mantle
for the non-believer.
in the dark, so you turn
green at every angle.
what i’ve seen in the woods.
the sky, a callous, theoretical
like you remember pink.
to do with being good
a horse-like thing. i know
of this. i’ll reset this room.
my hometown is a floodgate.
you said “bloodgape.” bethesda,
chiquita or kylie minogue.
kind of hot. i can’t tell you yet
i’m scared i’m losing the edge.
that you leave,
that all i have is astigmatism.
autumn koors-foltz is a lesbian poet from Baltimore, Maryland. Their work can be found in Ghost City Review and Red Ogre Review, among other journals. They are an MFA student in poetry at Colorado State University.