Rebekah M. Rykiel

Strangers, Polluted

“When I fall in love I’ll count the tick of little pits in city
puddles I’ll forget the dead and count the doors instead”
—Patrick Rosal

Hold my arteries for me, use your thumb
and pointer to stretch, let go and watch

them fly past the gray clouds looping
your tongue in O shapes. Catch and keep them

next to your freckled pale skin and grass
green eyes. I’ll look in the mud

for your initial—N. I’ll keep your name
in the tracks under my tires—I’ll carve you

in my tread. Hold my right and left
ventricle, don’t spill me. Use

both hands, pinch and poke, let go and watch
them bounce on the new tile in your kitchen

and leave the balcony open. I want to drop
our ashes and watch your smoke mix

in, twirling around my charred body and skin. Let
me be lost in air.