By: Ella Brady
a park bench deserves sun spots,
it has earned them.
it weathered candy-struck tongues
licking lips that form tunnels for
whispers that oscillate between
swollen
party-balloon
cheeks.
if you stuffed my wrinkle lined mind
inside that pastel frame,
where I lived with you,
would I love still lake water
like it was new,
every time, would all the muscles in my face
know how to—
smile in tandem; could light
beam from my palms;
settle on tip toes;
burst?
a park bench deserves sun spots,
do I deserve freckles?
Future Histories 