Roller Coaster Road
Do you remember those nights
when I was a sophomore and you
lived on my futon.
You used to wake me up at three in the morning
and we would get stoned
and drive up and down roller coaster road.
I heard someone got killed doing it once.
Even the next morning when I had to chug
three Redbulls to make it through
my finals, I would just laugh,
intoxicated in sweatpants.
The doctors could never cure you,
and maybe your new boyfriend did;
but sometimes when I wake up
in the middle of the night,
all I want to do is call you up,
‘cause driving alone on roller coaster road
isn’t as stimulating as it was when
I was the passenger.
South Virginia
I could hate your girl,
I could tell you I think she’s
real pretty.
I can hope that you are still
sleeping on the couch in your mother’s
basement, watching the
Discovery channel and Conan O’Brien.
I still want to sit in your body shop for hours,
watching your black shirt get dirtier,
thinking about how hot it would be to fuck you in between
all those broken down cars.
Instead I wrote you poems in the dust
of the windows.
And you welded
“Marry Me” onto a piece of metal, because I told you
it was better than a text message.
Airplanes
I want to spill into your arms
let my bones hang out of their sockets
over the bend in your elbows
and where each shoulder meets your neck
I want my muscles to seep into your pores
and melt into your skin
and spasm in your nervous system
I want my red blood cells to dance with your
white ones
until our veins turn purple
and create wrinkles
shaped like airplanes.
Sarah Shupack has written poetry since high school, inspired in part by her twin older brothers who have schizophrenia. She is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College in liberal arts/creative writing. She currently walks dogs for a living, while writing as she has time. She lives in Woodbridge, Virginia with her boyfriend Brian and dog Topanga.
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