In light of stolen lipstick and dying
for Zacarah
It wouldn’t make sense to brandish our memories
with false sap.
Truthfully, you were a wild child;
the henna dick you drew on my leg took a week
to fully fade. You used to bend me over furniture
and bump your crotch against my butt
as if you could actually penetrate. We’d laugh.
I never got back the lipsticks
you stole from my room. I never knew a lock
capable of keeping you out,
and the universe decided, less than three years
after your graduation,
it was time to suck you through the vortex
like the best part of a vanilla shake.
We all know you weren’t vanilla, though, in any way.
I don’t picture you in clouds or ashes, asleep in a casket.
I picture you fully alive in space
playing spades with the man on the moon.
Andrea Jefferson is a creative residing in Southern Louisiana. Her chapbook Stray Curls and Dirty Laundry was released digitally in 2018.
