happy summer

i.

i went to the crystal store the other week;

the girl behind the counter recommended chrysocolla

to draw out guilt, she told me

it was a pretty stone

colours

like the shadows of trees cast

upon some body of water

i could almost see myself in its blue veins

sinking;

i'll take it

ii.

every time my father sits down at the piano

i turn my chrysocolla over and over

in my hands

and wish the minor notes

didn't sound so much like my name

iii.

cold chrysocolla

coca-cola falls flat in my throat

shallow cuts by christmas tree lights

i feign sleep in my unmade bed out here in the margins

iv.

i’d say goodnight

but it isn’t

i’d say i love you

but i don’t, i can’t

i’ll just cradle my cold stone

cold stone, not quite sober

god, i pray you don’t dream about me