Jamie Kazay was born in Hollywood, and grew-up in Pasadena, California. She relocated to Chicago for graduate school in 2005. She holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from California State University, Northridge and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia College, where she teaches writing. Her poems have appeared in Northridge Review, Wicked Alice, Columbia Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She is the Development Manager at Alcuin Montessori School, and enjoys researching Virginia Woolf.
Takeout
He is curly haired.
Massachusetts between sheets.
The blinds open. The lights dim and toying.
Outside, four hours ago, where I met him.
We take pictures of night. Undress to comfortables.
I read “Please Be Good.” His head against.
Ipswich sleeps. He is bent, dreams and may tell me.
His arms show bristles for hair, each strand tangled
crawling along the bedpost. Making a mockery of turned mouth.
The floors are not hardwood. Not ceramic. Not marble.
But they connect these four walls.
Red lipstick is the door. I am a neon sign.
We are not courting. Chicago is without fireflies.
We singe wings. Why singe a wing. Why singe.
We swear on exhibition, streaking the mirrors.
In the morning I leave my panties at home,
in the dresser or hamper, and I go to work.
.
Takeout
He is curly haired.
Massachusetts between sheets.
The blinds open. The lights dim and toying.
Outside, four hours ago, where I met him.
We take pictures of night. Undress to comfortables.
I read “Please Be Good.” His head against.
Ipswich sleeps. He is bent, dreams and may tell me.
His arms show bristles for hair, each strand tangled
crawling along the bedpost. Making a mockery of turned mouth.
The floors are not hardwood. Not ceramic. Not marble.
But they connect these four walls.
Red lipstick is the door. I am a neon sign.
We are not courting. Chicago is without fireflies.
We singe wings. Why singe a wing. Why singe.
We swear on exhibition, streaking the mirrors.
In the morning I leave my panties at home,
in the dresser or hamper, and I go to work.
.