Two alligatorhead girls in a murky pool, my racerback your wing
span wide, acrylics half-
torn hauling branches, work you say your father should have done.
You wonder if Megan will come
with the movies being filmed here and all
I wonder if she really drinks blood, mine
rusty and waterlogged—even the mosquitoes don’t bite.
But I’ve seen True Blood and enough eulogies
to know that veins are a two way street—
a body, a temple, a city.
When the last storm hit they said this city
drowned, but we’re still here, waxing crocodilian for a patch
of sun, hot girls, summers. Don’t
Ophelia me. FEMA doesn’t
resurrect the dead any more
than the head in a gator’s belly
can Frankenstein a man,
and I would like to say it’s your cracked lips I’ve been watching, not the skies but
It’s spooky season and if
we weren’t already haunted
we might draw a star around a pothole
whisper ghosts and rainwater
Tell Megan to come-
graves already raised.