I straddled you once, on the green
chair that was slowly unwrapping its
skin from its thin, weathered bones.
The lights in the tree were on, those
sinking, desperate things. I was
pretending and you pretended back
until we weren’t anymore. In the bathtub
we passed a bottle of Whiskey beneath
my chandelier and went wetly to bed.
Our shirts clung to our breasts and we
used my ouija board to summon my
grandmother rolling over in her grave.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alison Miller is a writer and sex educator whose poetry has been published in various literary magazines including Hobart Pulp, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Bareback Magazine. The owner of sex positive adult boutiques in Richmond, Virginia, she currently resides in San Diego. She is the editor-in-chief of Throats to the Sky Magazine. Find her on Instagram @throats.to.the.sky