The Ghost Town
Angelica blossoms, kissing breeze, grazing
necks; sun relays moon. She watched us swim
drunk through velvet tides, following bombing
comets, pyrite powder pressed to smooth
stones sliding down my throat. What baked this ballast
of my rising chest? where cracks appear as comet tails I pluck
each leg of this embedded tick, lost to sleep.
Chalk dust washes empty streets and lines
my mouth with grit, sanding my tongue as I spit
teeth into your outstretched hand, one by one
Nicole Dufalla teaches engineering in Virginia where she enjoys writing and getting lost outside.