I want to believe in your hands lies


a song that plays when the coin slides


down the slot in the bar jukebox

next to the glasses emptied too fast,


a song that plays as you wash my back and we waste

water in the shower. Play the song for me


in the car with my fingers outstretched through

the moonroof testing the bit-too-cold air. Reach


for my thigh, keep me warm as Ursa Minor

sprinkles wayward willow leaves on us


like confetti on newlyweds. Remember

how that old song went.


Remind me.


Press Play



Anne Marie Wells (She | Her) of Hoback Junction, Wyoming is a queer poet, playwright, and storyteller navigating the world with a chronic illness.






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