Four Poems – Chelsea Coreen

Acoustic

He sits in the corner, with a pitcher of beer 
and the girl. Her legs are guitar strings. 
Thin and gold. The way my legs looked 
that summer. He would pluck 
me open and fill me with hot breath. 
It felt exactly like flying, except when it didn’t. 
I watch him drum his fingers against the table, 
the way he often did when the pills wore off. 
His body became an orchestra, teeth clattered 
symbols. His eyes raced thunderstorms 
and nothing he said made any sense to anyone 
except for me. We would stay awake 
for months at a time, our fingers pressed 
against the windshield. Sometimes, he would split 
the capsule down its orange crease and pass me half 
with his tongue. Those pills made me love him, 
I think. They made my legs so thin. 
Thin enough to fit under his fingernail.