By Sara Ryan
When father bolsters chest against the pit,
you and Emily are clutching concert tees
to necks, your sweat is visible and salt
is pooling under lips. You’re twelve, and dad
will let you meet the band. The Sharpie smells
like victory, or messy hair or beer.
You roam the universe. Or concert halls.
You’re looking out for black, forgettable,
forgiving grit. The makeup dark. The angst
untorn and sticky. Chemical romance, in skin
and skinny jeans. The black and black and black
parades, the shirts you steal from dad. The scratched,
forgotten disks beneath the driver’s seat. The
unsharpened eyeliner penciled hard, deep, messy.
Sara Ryan is a third-year poetry MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University and an associate poetry editor for Passages North. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from Slice Magazine, Third Coast, Fairy Tale Review, Yemassee, Prairie Schooner, Hunger Mountain and others.