By Zoe Kleinfeld, Contributor, La Jolla High School
It’s sometime after the Age of Aquarius, and we’re all our father’s daughters, seventeen,
Actaeon.
The breath sticks heavy against my throat as her voice whips white against the world: all
psychedelic in heroin,
red metal chain link strands, 27.
Another time, the moon was rising on the subway
and she was yolky sun: setting fire to ants in the bald patches of the grass-
turning my own back flaming red.
Yeah baby, yeah: her words swish fabric, lick around my tongue,
slip from my lips like a tinged cigarette as I roll to her strums.
Leaves me dizzy in copacetic blues.
This is an anthem against teen angst: miles and miles of everything.
Somewhere between muddy diner coffee and Jesus when I pray my head down
to let her words melt against my inner ear and drawl the drum of a bebop:
the sounds that make the people believe.
It’s sometime after the Age of Aquarius, and we’re all our father’s daughters, seventeen,
Actaeon.
The breath sticks heavy against my throat as her voice whips white against the world: all
psychedelic in heroin,
red metal chain link strands, 27.
Another time, the moon was rising on the subway
and she was yolky sun: setting fire to ants in the bald patches of the grass-
turning my own back flaming red.
Yeah baby, yeah: her words swish fabric, lick around my tongue,
slip from my lips like a tinged cigarette as I roll to her strums.
Leaves me dizzy in copacetic blues.
This is an anthem against teen angst: miles and miles of everything.
Somewhere between muddy diner coffee and Jesus when I pray my head down
to let her words melt against my inner ear and drawl the drum of a bebop:
the sounds that make the people believe.