Dylan

I could be a soulful lover
and sit on your dick slowly
with my heavy soul.

I am an old woman, really.
 

.

Gangsters on television scare me.
I give them dollar bills
in my dreams and tie cotton sheets
around my neck.

No, I am truly not your type.

But the evening is a dowry,

and the weather is good.

Bet the weather looks good
hanging out your backseat window
like every other West Coast girl.

.

Have I ever told you
my daddy once promised
to buy me a race car
the colour of his longing.

We could go anywhere.
I want whiplash
and one hundred miles
of your hair in my mouth.

I could be a soulful lover
and eat your soul
while you bend over,
my beautiful city
with your ass full of flag.

This would be an advantageous era
to love me despite my flaws.

.

I will never love you.

Will you please let me

fuck you like a girl?

.

Please don’t unless you want
Find what I left
Understanding so little, I

I dream of you in San Francisco.

jaNe,

The snow falls

it
 falls
 

it
 falls 

Let’s watch it
from your
double bed,
Slowdive
mumbling
a girl’s name
on repeat.

Remember
last summer?
Wet footprints
in Creepers.
Root beer
between shifts.
I was a lowly
barista pouring
con pannas
in the King’s
strip mall.
Espresso
on ice.
Lords in silver
necklaces
threw nickels
at my name
tag and called
me Sara.
I was like,
It’s Šari.
They were like,
Thanks Sara.

Jane,
you touched
me softly.
Lit cigarettes
in the trunk
of a Kia.
Then again
with sewing
needles.
Half a star
scabbed
on my ankle.
Downtown
the tourists
wore silk
Babaton,
their heirs
blushing
in City Park.
We walked
along
the water,
laughed
at everything.

Sunblock,

vegan leather.

Birds hustled
cat skulls
from the trash.

That time
of year.

Jane,
we napped
on the beach.
Off work at six
with stale
croissants
and hangnails.
Crouching
by rental
Sea-Doos.
Crumbs flaking
into sand.
Remember
pleasure boats
all roped up?
Cabin lights,
heavy cream
in waves.

Šari writes poems and takes pictures of things near a lake in Canada. She’s never been to San Francisco.