Poetry by Andrew Collard

MISTAKING HOME

I can’t go back to last night anymore

I watched her
holding up her severed lip
as if to speak

at any moment blind
between the pillars of whatever
we mistake for home

I always used to live
somewhere else

The first time that I saw her naked
a farce of lingerie

I was shaken loose
removed in body

whistling songs
old enough to be my dad

her face like a fucking mother’s

Why can’t
those times be delivered

knowing now the steeping
won’t complete

Our fingers trace
pell-mell wrinkles toward
new living rooms

newer
living rooms

without lips
carrying a milkshake never drinking

holding hands anonymously
at the movies
 


Andrew Collard

Andrew Collard lives in Madison Heights, MI with wife/cats/Outrageous Cherry albums. He attends Oakland University and kind of wishes he had a pet lobster. Recent work can be found over on Exfic.