Mia Donaldson

Smoke Signal

Midnight: the constant

anniversary of your

nails in my

forehead, my knees

skinned in the

mosh pit by

the blade of

another body,

the hotel shower

is occupied and

the wet sheets

can’t stand my

touch; I’ve been

thinking about sonic

confession, about the

halved moon coming

out lavender and

you somewhere in

Ohio, keying cars

and losing voices.

When I return

to campus, daisies

are growing from

your bong in

my window, a

sight I deemed

an omen when

you pulled the

King of Wands

and my hair,

and the greens

and browns burst

then bloom; bruise

became my first

name the moment

you spoke it.

Mia Donaldson is a sophomore at SUNY Geneseo majoring in English and political science. She enjoys cities, gory literature about horrific women, chai, and making everything into a poem.