Pineapple Clouds by Emily Moore (Tennessee, 19)

Mr. In, is there really no other way?
can a canvas not, at base, at heart
be that wall across from that glass lamp;
glares emanating from the forbidding rule of touch.
Must you come in with your bleach and cloth
on bended knee, on a dozen pills for that line on your forehead
and curse wax for its sticking
and color for never staying put.
The child, small, cannot reach
The place where you’ve locked their crayons away;
You believe the key gift enough
You’ve never believed in pineapple clouds.
​

Mr. Out, why must you spike your hair that way?
the store’s run out of gel because of you,
they’ll kill a cow in honor of your graduation
from twenty to thirty; you still feel small.
You didn’t recognize that face;
puffed up and drawn, but cruelty free
was I made in a lab? Can you please
flip this all upside down?
shuck off your plum; kiss the the girl to death
pucker your lips and let your lungs fill with her lemon smog.
Eat the green apple peel they have left just for you;
you sleep with the seeds beneath your pillow
because the bill would be the end of you.

The key got lost somewhere in the closet
in a box full of paper, scribbled on;
and you can’t see the cow anymore,
all you see is the beef.
In births out; tries to make it go through its own door,
insisted there were raisins where the child saw grapes,
destroyed stools on which feet could stand
and chopped off little fingers that reached too far.
All you had to do was let them draw on the walls,
but here we are. Your wish has been granted,
Your cement scrapes skies; the lightbulb burns immortal,
and your child never sleeps, because they know
that you’ll be waiting, at the table, when they wake up, juicy apple in hand,
To send them to the corner
for dreaming of pineapple clouds.



Emily Moore is old enough to know better, but keeps making mistakes anyway. She loves to read, write, and sip coffee while she watches the birds bicker in her backyard. She can often be found listening to Tori Amos records and thinking about any little nothing that catches her fancy.