PITANGA by LOGAN FEBRUARY

the floors of memory are glass, which means
the medicine isn’t working, which means
I am back on the floor, which means
it is July, which means
the cherries are in bloom, which means
they are painting the shrubs red, which means
they look like fire, which means
I’m going to try to pick them, which means
I’m still attracted to danger, which means
I could want you again, which means
you are still a black hole, which means
you are where I disappear, which means
I’m going to love you, which means
I’m still trying to disappear, which means
the medicine isn’t working, which means
I’m still sick in the head, which means
I was right, which means
I was wrong, which means
I can’t trust myself, which means
I can’t trust you, which means
I can’t trust anything, which means
I need medicine, which means
hospital, which means
until October, which means
the cherries should be gone, which means
this isn’t real, which means
the medicine isn’t working, which means
the floors of memory are glass, which means
I am falling through and through, which means
no one is catching me, which means
you are not here


Logan February is a happy-ish Nigerian owl who likes pizza & typewriters. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in (b)OINK, Wildness, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, and more. His chapbook, Painted Blue With Saltwater (Indolent Books) is forthcoming in 2017. Say hello on Instagram & Twitter @loganfebruary.

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