1 poem by Ann Ward

Fever Colada

 

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I found you yesterday painting yogurt tubs neon

& asking them to glow for you

your sunburnt butt too hot to peel

this body’s a resort with my all-you-can

my guided bus tours of the local villages

look at these beads

the woman in the booth behind me

said pink ice cream is always an addiction

sees little smears in my ear-tucked hairs

the stars of reality tv are afraid of butterflies

but hard for santa

and the editors aren’t sure how to play it

wake up your butt is magnetic

it's beached on my lap

I'm holding all of you in my breakdown

traffic cone orange and curaçao blue

I'm loving these medications thank you for asking

tomorrow we can sell trinkets on the sidewalk

oh your butt your butt

I'm never letting go