heartbr[ache]
grow old, die young
before your heart numbs
from heaving with laughter
and caressing his cheek,
your lipstick smearing
his thumb
she has the suit and dress,
scarecrows on mannequins,
in her front lawn—
no explanation needed
that they were
only worn once
(whether for a funeral
or wedding, proportioned bodies
wear lace, frills, and cologne’s musk
[always strongest when
she kissed his cowlick]
with exquisite trust)
the young couple approaches
the sale, moving (casual-not-casual)
ever closer to the cloth and dust
the woman appears
wearing teeth that smile
thinking, all the while,
they must like antiques
the day i washed you out of my sweater
i let a week pass
before the scent grows
too pale a dose
of fantasy
your joke had been
far too serious
to take lightly:
“i see nothing sexy
about wearing lingerie,
but one of your sweaters…”
i press it,
still damp,
to my face
and breathe
the sterile trace
of an amputation
your smell
is now a word—
a ghost
of a ghost
patchouli
Uriah Howard Allis, a queer twenty-one-year-old poet and nursing student from rural Western New York, has found pieces of his heart, mind, and soul escaping to the blank page ever since he could hold a pencil. He is the winner of the Alfred C. O’Connell Library’s 20th Student Poetry Content (2021). His poetry has been published by or is forthcoming from Active Muse, Ice Lolly Review, Eclipse Magazine, Moss Puppy Magazine, and Intangible Magazine. You can follow his journey on Instagram @uriahallis or https://uriahallis.wixsite.com/my-site.