the brightest sunsets

By Amanda Nicole Corbin

are most polluted: 
her cheeks a rosy red her mind midnight 
black, this way she can blame the rain 
for the clouds and say self-sterilizing 
memory–that is a gift 

                                    she promises
chugging jars of nighttime under 
a plugged nose, collapsing on herself 
laughing at joke that only exists 
in the future while someone accuses 
another of stealing– wasnt her, never 
her–she isnt that kind of bad, 
always one more, just one 
more, just

              drinking to drop what she carries: 
her glasses, her mind, her losses, her coat,
until theres no pockets left to hole open
no friend to carry her home
no one to identify the tingly aftertaste 
of lost potential, the softened sound 
of clinking glass, the curling 
of a stinger embedded in her tongue, 
at least 

not until she rolls over 
and sees the faintest beam of light 
waking up without a headache, 
stretching calmly and quietly 
beneath her bed

Amanda Nicole Corbin has had her short form poetry and prose published in a variety of magazines and journals including Door is a Jar, Of Rust and Glass, the Notre Dame Review, and more. She currently lives in Columbus, Ohio and spends her time writing, customizing her dolls, and playing Dungeons and Dragons.