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Chicken Little photo

more intimate with the fit of a Gildan 
shirt versus this thing hovering some 
distance over my head always threatening 
grey blonde grey depending on mood
secrets held in pinprick dots connected

across a sky—not fabric 
I remind myself with steady
breaths forced as all above falls 
closer, covers nose/mouth like pillow 
smothering, sucking fibers 
or air doesn’t matter anymore

she’s not into the come hither
motion as much, prefers me
scratching at wood as if buried alive
says it reminds her we’re slowly 
suffocating in this narrow bed, under 
stratigraphy of hair, student loan debt

god we should be full by now—have had
our fill, yet I can tell she’s waiting 
for me to fall again: lips to waist one last taste
mouth on parts cave’s entrance mumbling
shelter shelter shelter, the words echo
as my eyes rolls back, I fall for sky.


image: Nathan Anderson