I have her book (At the Drive-in Volcano). It's pretty great.
by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Each piece of chalky wafer breaks
my heart. I adore these pastel chips
strung on the thinnest of elastics. I hold
them in my mouth. I drool little rings
down my lips and when I try
to talk and giggle there is a catch
in the throat-a catch when the elastic
snaps and the sizzle of candy spills on tile
like a drop of orange sauce on a hot grill.
Winter now and drunk flies knock
my window for just one more drink
of light, or to sink into fruit juice left in a glass
overnight. I chew off all the tiny pink
rings, then the blues, the yellows, and leave
all the white: a sad excuse for pearls
at this age. We have sticky necks
sticky hands and when I slide the candy-
an acabus around my neck- I count the times
you thought of me today- or was it
how many times I thought of you?
I set the silly truck-stop rings you offered me
under my tongue. My neck is still sticky,
still collects- but the candy necklace
I wear tonight is all the rings you gave
my phone and I didn't answer. Now
I can afford even peacock pearls clasped
in a wild gold latch but I have no money
for his steps his boot his taste.
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