securing the tigris jolie prather the boy i love is chopped brown hair and petal green eyes over rosehip cheeks. he is kitschy hawai'ian shirts and bargain bin sandals. he is rearranging the numbers on scales and drinking lots of water. whiskey was just a phase, cigarettes a flame, smoldering in the ashes underneath some bushes. and now, because i guess love is never quite enough he wants a bullet to punch him in the side:      for clarity,      for truth. for little notes around the house and pressed between books:      "i miss doing the laundry with you -      and making love on the whirlpools" words that pound my pregnant body like the mortar that engorged his brain.