Veins are long lines of genes running
through you, the last words of “I’ve Had the Time of My Life”
in my brain tell my heart to keep pumping
to my toes, she relives summers spent slumming.
This is the question he should have asked his wife:
How many glasses of wine before you realize you’re running
from the mother in you. She says, I guess loving
life-long skips a generation. I finger the knife,
think, she has no idea the self-control pumping
permission into: fuck up a good thing,
fight against it—all kissing has a shelf life.
Cycles look like: one glass equals one excuse, running
the myth of her into the real mothering.
How hard she tried to fight the housewife
and the cycle keeps pumping
through my veins. I can’t help wanting
to push him out into the three-lane high-
way. Her mistakes are running
wild in me. This is our heart pumping.
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Sage Curtis, 26, is a Bay Area poet with an MFA from the University of San Francisco. Her work has been published in numerous literary journals and she performs it whenever possible. Recently, she’s been interested in the glamor and grit of addiction, and places we find it unexpectedly.
VAGABOND CITY 