Nola Darling

A sparrow flaps through our carriage

frosted meadows reflect across
espresso skin

her lume-blue hoodie glows like
graffiti that etched the station
some stops ago.

She sits so self-assured
not like me
boxy and downcast
hiding from iPad guy
whose pupils climb
up my tights.

If I were Nola I wouldn’t allow this
I’d gorge on his extricated eyeballs
like marshmallows on a stick.

And then, as a Tarantino heroine
I’d slice his neck and blow into
his severed head so he bursts
like bubblegum.

If I were Nola I wouldn’t have been at that
party last night, where tequila swam through my blood
and placed my hands on a boy who didn’t want them
there and if I were Nola I would never cry
I’d hiss and march and Max wouldn’t sling
me over his shoulder like a sack and put me
on a train so I don’t cause more damage.

Nola gets off and I’m tempted to follow
hoping my feet imbibe the shadowy imprint
of her steps but this is nowhere near my house,
her neighbourhood would surely eat me up.

I slide back down to make a bird’s nest
out of my purple hair tie.

My fingers weave over and under,
I give iPad guy a guilty smile.