BY AUTUMN FRANZ.
I do not bring or even buy a ticket
For the unmarked location. No one
Knows where it ends, this place
Where we pick flowers and say
Thank you for the misery, undressed
By some forgotten landlord
Who repacks everyday, waiting
For a tornado warning, a newscaster
That cannot tell time or even
Swallow pills with much ease
In her throat, which burns
Of whiskey and toothpaste and
Lies awake, scattering socks
From pairs to separation, lacking
No contingent line up, no guest
In the check out section with a frame
Of mind that constitutes a hunger
For pretzels and a cushionless couch.
I have no vases so I plant
My lipstick on soap dishes,
And set the microwave for ten
Like an open locket on a gravestone,
Hoping to shut off the ignition
Before the rain fills up all
The tired chimneys and empty laundry baskets
Left undone, like a clock unwound
Twirling into some tender bow,
Pulling the boots off and wiping
The elbows with candle wax,
Creating a letter without a return address.
Autumn Franz is a pansexual, feminist poet who loves mint tea and thrift store sweaters. She is a third year student at John Carroll University studying Sociology, Philosophy and Gender, Sexuality and Women’s Studies. Autumn currently resides in Ohio, and you can follow her on Instagram @autumn.franz and Twitter @AFPositive.