Smoke Signal
Midnight: the constant
anniversary of your
nails in my
forehead, my knees
skinned in the
mosh pit by
the blade of
another body,
the hotel shower
is occupied and
the wet sheets
can’t stand my
touch; I’ve been
thinking about sonic
confession, about the
halved moon coming
out lavender and
you somewhere in
Ohio, keying cars
and losing voices.
When I return
to campus, daisies
are growing from
your bong in
my window, a
sight I deemed
an omen when
you pulled the
King of Wands
and my hair,
and the greens
and browns burst
then bloom; bruise
became my first
name the moment
you spoke it.
Mia Donaldson is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo majoring in English and political science. She enjoys cities, gory literature about horrific women, chai, and making everything into a poem.