For George Popovic
She threw her mind onto the ground, sculpted it into sticks, circles, and a smile, partially gold, halted it with super glue, nails, and a hammer, and stuck her empty eye inside to find her calendar flipped to March 9, 2020, as she was 5’2 with an eyebrow slit, uneven side bangs, and an ancient backpack. She just stood in the sun and wrapped herself around the purity in front of the door with the 400 hugs in need of a recharge as though the damage of forgiven neglect was in the storm over the purity’s navy cap and puffy vest, adjacent to all the beating hearts that the 75 hugs haven’t helped pump. He knows she’d rather take her unspoken pride and delight to the 3rd floor nook where all the scents of stated dignity and bliss sleep comfortably as pillows, and she’ll keep her finger pointed toward sitting by the phone, hearing three words that she sat on, turning her physical numbness into emotional. He was under her bed, in her window blinds, and lying on the swings, slide, and monkey bars to say a personal good night, so the voice on the phone was wrong, and he knew she felt 42 kinds of guilt, so he went and left an alarm to watch the sunrise and notice his face woven through the lines of yellow, pink, and purple. She could be liked, disliked, hated, or loved, and she could be a child in need of a bit of family with contradicting DNA, but the reality was that she was 33% unaware, 33% disorganized, 33% puberty,
and 1% George Popovic.
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