Is it snow that eloquently
suffocates green like poetry
hiding her eyes when the heavens detonate
or ashes confetti-like
smearing the black ink line
between a eulogy and a birthday cake?
love me
- dolly at school
- She was Lo. Plain Lo in the morning. Standing five foot two in one sock. She smoked in her car and sang to herself. She wrote songs in her head when you took her on dates. She was jazz. She was the blues. She was high. She was not an artist, but she was good at a few things. That's why they still call her. And you should keep reading.
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