taylor copeland
No valentine Taylor Copeland is a Pennsylvania native, now living in
Minnesota. Her poems have recently appeared in Hobo Camp Review,
Thick With Conviction, Chantarelle's Notebook,
Drown In My Own Fears and The Active Voice. In
2010, she was nominated twice for Best of the Net and also was nominated for
Best of the Web. She loves the band Paramore, reads obsessively, likes pink
things, drinks too much coffee, drives aimlessly and falls in love too easily.
She is unashamed of all of it.
The months were styrofoam cups filled with ice,
a cobwebbed tea kettle on an oil spattered stovetop.
You saved bits of torn college ruled paper
under your mattress, red inked "be mine"s
waiting for retrieval from
some kept boy that walked the hallways,
head down, earbuds in, a flop of brown over his eyes.
If you weren't recovered, you'd pray to something
gain your mother's approval,
have something bleed for you the way your eyes did,
peering up from pages, glancing
glancing at the door and waiting,
waiting for a knock to send your blood tingling.
You left with a box of stale candy hearts,
no valentine to send e-mails, texts.
A roadtrip lullaby earwormed for comfort
sat humming in your throat.
Your hands filled with ribbon and wet eyelashes.