Purgatory
Between the pink and blue
every last kid in a neon fit
agrees this is bliss and I feel
singled out. Unspoken contracts
hold everyone accountable
to the dancefloor, and James holds
my shoulders as we share
our private who-done-its.
I learn manilla is not a color,
but all the folders look manilla anyway.
Somewhere a car is washed,
and the graveyard nearby achieves
emotional relocation. Purgatory is full
of gritty zoomers in goodwill sweaters
and it’s still not a bad option.
I become intimate
with the underbelly of a bridge,
the vines growing in the subway,
the first tongues of rain. The Uber
home is a place to admit misgivings,
soaked black streets, overpasses,
oneways, a cigarette burned seat
darkened leaves against the wet sky.
Taylor Cornelius is a poet and artist from Denver, Colorado. She holds an MFA in poetry from New York University. Her poems have appeared in The Penn Review, Gigantic Sequins, Leavings, The Spectacle, Poets.org and elsewhere. She currently lives next to a cemetery in Brooklyn.