Morgan Bishop

Did the burning throat hurt less if it came from alcohol?
Or the lies sold like lemonade at garage sales
Was the taste of charred rubber and lemon skins 
Bitter? Or was it sweet like candy
Lime and salt held to your lips
Like sandpaper on my cheek
Did the yellowed skin finally match your drink?
Like forbidden camouflage 
Did the abandonment fill the space
And time between liquor store binges?
I begged you to take me shopping,
the smell of mint and cinnamon
covered the vinegar coated breath,
but I told you not to go shopping sober
when your aggression was stronger
than the taste of gasoline

That summer when the rain came
my books were washed away by the river
broken bikes, leftover cars
watched my pages tear
lines, poems drenched in dust
and rust, and mud
from the shoes in basement closets
pairs were separated into singles
Then halves, then dissolved
Nothing, a silenced current
That summer when the rain came
It left everything, left  nothing
behind the fences, parking spots, pictures
leaking rainbows of faces
washed by acid rain and scrap metal scratches
Your address, floating through flooded
street coffee cups following bathtubs
on couches, and in baskets
the fireplace too weak to burn
grandmother’s apple pie recipe lost
in the pile of books, and pressed flowers