Poetry

December 15, 2010      

Go green to counterbalance the red or purple tones by Jaime Warburton

The 18 year old boy I refer to in my gradebook
as “Birthmark,” for the cafe au lait stain
smoothed on the side of his peach-pale
neck, sits across from me with his notebook
and I see the purple-hot pricks of a love
bite in a line running up next to the original
splotch; for a moment I am taken
away from my desk and ungraded papers,
remembering the drive-in hatchbacks
playing Dookie on the tape deck, the pulling
up of my blood and breath through the membraneskin
of my neck, the teeth, afterward the foundation
and cold spoons and awkward scarves and my friends
laughing my name, saying, Whoever he is, he
must have a small mouth, and I was nothing
but teeth in the middle of the night when pulses
slow and men are at risk of dying from arrhythmia.

Jaime Warburton

About the author

Jaime Warburton’s work has most recently appeared in Dark Sky Magazine, The Collagist, The Silenced Press, Storyscape, and The Broome Review; she is the author of the Split Oak Press chapbook Note That They Cannot Live Happily. Jaime completed her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College and is currently assistant professor of writing at Ithaca College. Ithaca, like they say, is cold.

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