Two Poems
Tyler Heath
summer
the citrus knife edging the skin
off a blood orange. the yellowing dementia
and the cardinal’s watery blur through birch
as summer fades to its sparkling vomit.
the airbrushed dread. a folded
flag of blood. summer’s bubblegum
bomb pop dripping across the stitches
in your wrist. you unzip the dark house.
it collapses to a pile of coats.
the boxcar children
in the orchard
the cherry trees drool like an overdose.
we thought we loved america,
but what we loved was electrocution,
watching them bomb your brain.
we can make this violin
sound like a train,
like a mother that’s not coming back.
Tyler Heath's poems have appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, Angel Rust, Divot, Thin Air, Birds Piled Loosely, Gingerbread House, and elsewhere. He lives in Fort Worth, TX.