The Cheapest Way to Save a Heart
He’s warm. That’s how I imagine him anyway, a mostly positive counter to my ever-cold ribs.
I imagine he weaves his fingers through each bone as if my lungs could collapse, spontaneously. (White milk bones clashes with gorgeous tan skin.)
Or that my heart will fracture, sink to the bottom of my lungs, ribs break then dissolve.
He rides a Greyhound here, presumably, in flannel attire.
I’m more interested to read what he writes on the bus ride back home to Georgia. Peaches frozen in the snow. Maybe we’ll preserve it for next year, how sweet.
We pop off the top of thrifted mason jars so I’m finally full; my ribs won’t collapse inside my body, saving my heart.
Lacey Trautwein is a writer living in Kentucky, with their cat, Stanley. They read poetry for Gigantic Sequins and have work appearing or forthcoming in Bad Pony, The Heartland Review, Nutraloaf and elsewhere. They are the Founder of Lemon Star Mag, a safe space for teen/young adult writers. Find them online @lacey_trautwein