Kate Crowcroft

A few months before the crash
you slid chicken skin down the vegetable shoot.

How you get here, girl? She ran

two boyfriends: Hunter & Chase, so you know
I’ve got a Remington RP in the nightstand

& you asked to borrow the hairdryer. Till then, the closest
you’d come to technologies of death

were your father’s hands / mother’s neck. Each night we watched

Naked & Afraid, hot stuck in the mouth. Peeled
Kraft White Singles, Airheads in blue

raspberry sour, Snap’d
Butterfingers, as the screen gleaned her iris

ordering dumbbells off Amazon.

That year you proposed: difficulty as a means
to unhinge grief. When Spring broke

you split & went down the Keys, sucking the green
from two root canals. The way sugar turns

to acid in the mouth. Men outside IHOP said

they’d have to paper-bag your head
to stop themselves.

Kate Crowcroft is writer and poet. Her work has appeared in HEAT Literary Journal, The Best Australian Poems series, Visual Verse, Australian Poetry Journal, Prototype UK, The Review national newspaper, and other media.